


May Your Days Be Merry

by infinitevariety (disapparater)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Advent, Alcohol, Asexual Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Blankets, Christmas, Christmas Decorations, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Jumpers, Christmas Lists, Christmas Movies, Christmas Music, Christmas Tree, Christmas market, Comfort, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Christmas, Crowley Loves Kids (Good Omens), Crowley is Good With Kids (Good Omens), Cuddling & Snuggling, Dessert & Sweets, Die Hard is a Christmas Movie: Fight Me, First Christmas, Fluff and Humor, Food, Forehead Touching, Friendship, Hanukkah, Holding Hands, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Jewish Holidays, M/M, Menorah, Minor Original Character(s), Mulled wine, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Pranks and Practical Jokes, Prayer, Questions, Rain, Sharing Body Heat, Snow, Snow Angels, Visiting Santa Claus, except not, nativity, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:35:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 23,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27821623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disapparater/pseuds/infinitevariety
Summary: Having never been able to celebrate previously, Aziraphale and Crowley decide to embrace the festive season and make the most of their first December together since the world didn’t end.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 271
Kudos: 148
Collections: 2020 Advent Ficlet Challenge





	1. 'Tis the Season

**Author's Note:**

> So I’ve started a thing. A ficlet for every day of advent using [these](https://infinitevariety.tumblr.com/post/636164994093957120/2020-advent-ficlet-challenge) prompts. This will be a chaptered story, in so much as it’s going to follow Aziraphale and Crowley doing festive things together for the first time. It will be soft and silly and not hugely plotty. Sorry not sorry. Follow along here or on [tumblr](https://infinitevariety.tumblr.com/post/636325535622037504/may-your-days-be-merry)!

Crowley enters the bookshop in a cloud of vapour. Partly from the two steaming takeout cups in his hands, and partly from the heat of his own breath compared to the cold outside.

“Angel!” he cries as the door slams shut behind him. “Got you a hot chocolate from the little cafe down the street.”

Aziraphale appears from behind a bookcase, eyebrows raising in interest. “With whipped cream?”

“Whipped cream _and_ biscuit sprinkles.”

Although Aziraphale steps closer and takes the cup Crowley holds out for him, his brow is creased.

“Biscuit sprinkles?” he asks as he raises the drink and takes a sip. His eyes light up as he tastes it. “Gingerbread!”

“Yep. Thought you might like something a bit festive. ‘Tis the season, and all.”

“Oh dear me, is it December already?”

“First of.”

Crowley takes a drink from his takeout cup of tea and wanders to the sofa. The tea isn’t as good as when Aziraphale makes him a mug, but he couldn’t order just the hot chocolate and have the barista think it was for him.

Aziraphale is still mumbling, “Dear, oh dear oh dear,” as he follows Crowley and sits down opposite him in his usual seat.

“What’s up, angel?”

“What?” asks Aziraphale, snapping his attention to Crowley. “Oh, nothing, really, it’s just that… usually, you know, _before_ …” He tails off.

“Before this summer, where we got ourselves involved with averting the apocalypse, gave the finger to our respective head offices, and went independent?”

“Yes, that.” Aziraphale takes a large gulp of his hot chocolate. “Before _that_ , this time of year I’d usually be sent off all over the place to perform blessings and offer divine guidance. And, well, they—” Here Aziraphale raises his eyes unsubtly skyward. “—were a little looser with the limits, so I got away with quite a few extra _Christmas miracles_ , if you will.”

Crowley nods his understanding and forces a smile.

“So, you want to… do that. This year. Go travelling and bless the masses with festive magic.”

He can’t say it doesn’t sting, to be abandoned, again, as usual, this year, of all the Decembers. But Aziraphale is already shaking his head.

“Lord, no,” he says. “Since—since _giving the finger_ , as you so colourfully put it, I’ve been doling out miracles as I see fit. No reason to go overboard this Christmas—I already have been.”

Aziraphale’s cheeks have turned a charming shade of pink, and Crowley grins with pride.

“So then,” says Crowley, already feeling jollier, “what’s the problem?”

“It’s not a _problem_ , per se, I’ve just never had the festive period to myself… to spent however I’d like.”

“And how _would_ you like to spend it?” Crowley leans forward in his seat, keen to hear Aziraphale’s answer.

“With… well, with you, my dear, if you’re amenable. I don’t know how you usually spend your Decembers?”

Crowley is _not_ keen to admit that, thanks to the drop in temperature, the nights drawing in, and, most acutely, Aziraphale’s absences, he mostly spends Decembers and into the new years curled up in his bed, asleep.

“Yeah, ya know, doing bits and bobs, this and that, keep myself occupied.” Crowley plugs his mouth with his now-lukewarm average takeaway tea to make sure nothing else slips out.

“Then I propose—” Aziraphale sits up straight and claps his hands together. “—we assimilate.”

Crowley pulls a face. “We’ve been doing that since the literal beginning of time.”

Aziraphale opens his mouth, then closes it, leans his head to one side, pulls his lips into a firm line, and hums.

“Yes, okay,” concedes Aziraphale. “But I mean specifically for December. The holidays. The festive period. Yuletide. Etcetera. We should embrace it and celebrate like the humans do.”

“You mean like, with decorations and gifts and—”

“Food. Don’t forget the food.”

Crowley smiles. Aziraphale is alive with excitement, a wiggle ready to burst forth.

“Okay, if that’s what you want, angel, I’ll celebrate with you.”

And now Aziraphale is _beaming_ , smile brighter than the sun glinting off snow. Crowley’s sunglasses do nothing to block the rays of happiness.

“I’ll make a list!” declares Aziraphale, grabbing a sheet of paper and a pen from his desk and starting to scribble. “Places to go, things to buy, activities to do!”

“Is there anything I can do?” asks Crowley, suddenly feeling the pressure to make this the best December Aziraphale has ever had.

Without looking up from his paper, already covered in notes, Aziraphale holds out his empty takeaway cup.

“You can get me another one of those _delicious_ hot chocolates with gingerbread.”

Crowley take the cup without a word and makes his way to the door. He waits until he’s outside and walking back down the street to sigh.

“’Tis the bloody season.”


	2. Bells

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale wastes no time ringing in the festive season, much to Crowley's dismay.

As Crowley approaches the bookshop, everything seems normal. After yesterday’s decision to embrace the holiday season he had half expected to see tinsel and candles and fake snow in the windows. But no, the outside of the bookshop is steadfastly the same as usual. Crowley breathes a sigh a relief.

It’s only when Crowley pushes open the door and enters the bookshop that the chaos is revealed.

The first thing Crowley notices is the music. While it’s not unusual to hear music played in the shop, it is usually classical, operatic, or from a musical. This music is… lively. One might even say _jolly_. Crowley recognises the current song enough to know it’s a Christmas song, but not what it’s called.

The second thing Crowley notices, under the upbeat jangles of the song, is the humming. It can only be Aziraphale. Not only is he listening to Christmas songs, he is _humming along to them_.

Crowley has to pause by the door to gather his thoughts, as they have spun off in various unfamiliar directions. Once he has become acclimatised to the music and the humming, he steps further inside, wary of any further disturbances to his expectations.

A few rows of books back, he finds Aziraphale. Any thread of normality Crowley had been clinging to dissipates before his eyes. Because before his eyes is an angel in a bright red jumper, swaying his hips to the jolly music. Aziraphale is on tiptoes, reaching up with a feather duster to the top of the shelves.

Crowley must make some kind of choked noise of dismay, because Aziraphale turns around. He beams at Crowley, turning fully to face him. His movement is accompanied by a jangling sound so loud it is easily heard over the music. Crowley closes his eyes, whips off his sunglasses, and rubs at his eyeballs.

“Crowley!” calls Aziraphale, happiness in his voice.

“Are you— Is that—” Crowley struggles to find the words. “Does your jumper have bells on it?”

“Yes! It’s marvellous, isn’t it?”

Horror confirmed, Crowley opens his eyes to fully take in the monstrosity that is Aziraphale’s jumper. It’s mostly red, with circles of bright colours on the front— _baubles_ , Crowley’s brain unhelpfully supplies—and attached to each circle… a small silver bell.

“It’s hideous. Put your waistcoat back on.” At least he’s still got his bow tie on, Crowley thinks but does not say.

Aziraphale huffs. “I will not. If we’re celebrating the festive season we’re doing it properly.” As Aziraphale pulls his arms stiffly to his sides in an effort to emphasise his point, the bells on his jumper jingle again. “I’m getting _in the spirit_ , Crowley.”

“I’d rather get the spirit in me,” says Crowley as he turns and walks towards the back room. “Where’s the whiskey?”

Bells and footsteps sound behind him as Aziraphale follows.

“That’s not very festive, my dear. How about we make some eggnog?”

“Help yourself to the egg, angel.” As he speaks, Crowley pours himself a generous drink. “I’ve got the nog covered.” And with that he downs three fingers of whiskey.

Crowley notices Aziraphale take a swift glance at the clock—quarter past four.

“I suppose I could close the shop early…”

With a snap of Aziraphale’s fingers Crowley hears the lock of the front door close. Then Aziraphale is relieving Crowley of the bottle and pouring them both a drink. Crowley relaxes for the first time since he walked through the bookshop door and wanders over to collapse on the sofa.

Aziraphale brings him a glass with only one finger of whiskey, so Crowley sips it. He also narrows his eyes at Aziraphale as he watches him take a seat opposite.

“If you’re going to ration me can we at least turn the music down a bit?” Before he’s even finished speaking the volume of the music lowers to that of not entirely unpleasant background noise. “That’s better.”

“You, er, don’t like the jumper then?” Aziraphale asks far too softly.

Crowley wishes he’d kept his sunglasses on so he could roll his eyes. He settles for a small sigh.

“It just… I wasn’t expecting it, you know? Bit of a change from your usual garb. Quite _modern_ of you, really.”

Crowley looks at Aziraphale over his glass as he takes another sip of his drink. He watches for subtle signs of discomfort, wondering if Aziraphale will take insult to the implication that he is with the times. The idea of Aziraphale throwing off the jumper in a fit of sudden annoyance does have its appeals to Crowley.

Alas, Aziraphale simply looks down at his jumper and wiggles, causing the bells to jingle happily again.

“I got the jumpers this morning, from the charity shop a few doors down. They have some _wonderful_ bits in there.”

“Jumper _s_ —” Crowley sits up, suddenly alert. “—plural?”

“Yes.”

“What, do you have one for every bloody day of December?”

“Of course not, my dear.” Aziraphale pauses to take a sip of his own drink and Crowley allows himself to relax. “I got one for you as well.”

“Absolutely not,” cries Crowley as he springs up to grab the whiskey bottle.

Two hours and most of a bottle of whiskey later sees Crowley and Aziraphale drunkly stumbling around the bookshop in a manner that could generously be described as dancing. The music has been turned back up, so loud, in fact, that Crowley can barely even hear the sound of the bells from Aziraphale’s jumper.

Crowley himself is wearing a jumper. He can barely remember being cajoled into it, but he will never forget that it is green and has a reindeer with a flashing red nose emblazoned on the front. And he certainly won’t be telling Aziraphale how comfy it is.


	3. Chilly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley attend a Christmas market, and Crowley needs some help warming up.

From his vantage point across the road, as he is waiting for an opportunity to cross, Crowley spots Aziraphale exit the bookshop and lock the door. As he turns around he sees Crowley and waves to him.

“Ready to go?” asks Aziraphale as Crowley strides towards him.

“Lead the way, angel,” replies Crowley, making a sweeping gesture with one arm.

“I was thinking the Camden Christmas market, if you’re happy with a walk through Regent’s Park?”

“Sounds perfect.”

After the drunken fiasco that was yesterday’s festivities, Crowley is trying much harder today. He can do this. He can smile and celebrate and… who is he kidding? He can put up with it for Aziraphale’s sake, is what he can do. If there is anything to celebrate it is Aziraphale glow and contentedness when he’s truly happy. So, if Crowley can be festive with Aziraphale, Aziraphale will be happy, and therefore Crowley will be happy.

That was his logic when he’d called Aziraphale up this morning suggesting they take an evening walk to a Christmas market and see some festive lights.

As they walk the streets Aziraphale loops his arm through Crowley’s and gives a light squeeze. Crowley squeezes right back, and they continue on in companionable silence.

It’s when they get away from the streets—the hustle and bustle and life of Soho—and into the dimly lit park that Crowley begins to feel it. He tries to hide it. He clenches his jaw, puts his free hand as deep as he can into his sadly far-too-shallow pocket. But it’s no use—he’s basically shivering.

“It’s bloody cold,” announces Crowley.

“Hmm,” hums Aziraphale. “It is a bit chilly.”

“Chill— _Chilly?_ It’s got to be approaching zero degrees celsius, how can you say it’s only chilly?”

Crowley turns his outrage in Aziraphale’s direction, only to completely forget what he was going to say next. Instead he simply stares at Aziraphale. He is wrapped up in his coat, scarf, and gloves, just as he had been when they left the bookshop. But now, as well as all that…

“Where did those earmuffs come from?”

Aziraphale turns to look at Crowley and points to the fluffy tartan abominations on his head.

“Oh, these? Well, you know, I just—” Aziraphale mimes snapping his fingers, which looks rather silly with gloves on, but then everything about Aziraphale is rather silly. Crowley can’t help but grow a degree or two warmer as the thought passes through his head, making him smile. “Do you want me to whip you up a pair?”

“ _No!_ ” All of a sudden Crowley feels doused in ice water, colder than he was to start with. “Thank you, but no. I’ll be fine.”

With a roll of his eyes, Aziraphale pulls on Crowley’s arm, disentangling himself and throwing his own arm around Crowley.

“Come here, you fool.”

Crowley goes without complaint, settling himself at a slight stoop under Aziraphale’s arm. His coat is soft and Crowley leeches Aziraphale’s warmth. He turns his head to hide his smile in Aziraphale’s shoulder.

“If you’re really that cold I can pop back to the shop and grab your jumper?”

The red light of a reindeer’s nose flashes through Crowley’s mind. Reluctant to move his face from the warmth of Aziraphale’s coat, he mumbles his dissent into the fabric.

“Sorry, what was that?”

Begrudgingly, Crowley lifts his head just enough to whisper into Aziraphale’s ear. “Don’t you _dare_.”

Still held tight against his body, Crowley feels Aziraphale’s rumble of laughter even before he hears it. Crowley doesn’t notice the cold again for the rest of their walk.

When they arrive at the market Crowley reluctantly extricates himself and follows Aziraphale in the direction of the food stalls. They start at the stall with the shortest queue, and Aziraphale buys a bratwurst. Then they head to a small hut and Aziraphale buys some roasted chestnuts. Then they approach a huge confectionery stall and Crowley isn’t actually sure what Aziraphale buys. After that Crowley loses track of things.

They also spend some time sitting under the Christmas lights. Aziraphale munches on his purchases while Crowley watches the people move about the space. The chatter and tunes of the market wash over him, the smells of the various food stalls envelope him, and the bright, twinkling lights from behind the shield of his sunglasses add a glow to the entire scene.

He’s content, Crowley suddenly realises. He wonders if he’s finally caught the Christmas spirit—is it contagious?

Aziraphale sighs beside him and Crowley turns. He dusts off his hands, having finished his food, and smiles at Crowley. Crowley can’t help himself—he smiles back immediately.

“This has been a delightful evening, thank you for suggesting it, my dear.”

“I’m pleased you’ve enjoyed yourself.”

“Have _you_ enjoyed it, Crowley?” Aziraphale’s voice carries a note of worry.

Crowley nods firmly. “I have, actually. More than I thought I would.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful. I’m so glad.”

Aziraphale rubs his hands together before reaching down to grasp one of Crowley’s. He stands, pulling Crowley to his feet as well.

“One more stop, I think, then back to the shop.”

Hands held tight, Aziraphale leads Crowley to a small stall selling mulled wine. Aziraphale orders three large drinks, handing two full cups to Crowley before taking the third for himself.

“Are you trying to get me drunk, angel?”

“I’m trying to keep you _warm_. The walk back will only be colder than the walk here. So—” He points to the drinks in Crowley’s hands. “—down one now and keep one to sip during the journey home.”

Never one to refuse a drink, Crowley does as he is bid. The first mulled wine goes down a treat, heating him up in no time and giving him energy he had realised he was lacking.

Crowley’s second mulled wine, held securely in his left hand, lasts him the entire walk home. His right hand spends the entire journey in a warm coat pocket that is not his own, fingers laced with Aziraphale’s.


	4. Deck the Halls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley both decorate the bookshop, just not at the same time...

As he approaches the shop, Crowley adjusts the collar of his shirt self-consciously. After the first stirring of genuine festive feelings he experienced yesterday, Crowley has decided to show willing. His shirt, while as tight, fashionable, and expensive as usual, is not black.

Crowley is so consumed by uncertainty about his clothing, that he almost misses the bookshop’s new look.

He stands on the step staring straight at a moderately sized Christmas wreath. It contains sprigs of pine, boughs of holly, and bunches of small red berries. Crowley has to admit, it looks perfect. He wonders if Aziraphale made it himself. The idea entertains him, as he imagines Aziraphale bent over his desk in the middle of the night, shoving foliage into a rattan hoop, but he deems it unlikely.

Smile on his face, Crowley pushes open the door and steps inside.

There is no music today, and Crowley ignores the small pang he feels. While the shop may be silent, there are some new additions. In the middle of the shop, on the circular rug, are several boxes. Crowley approaches with caution. He’s just close enough to reach over and fold open the top of one of the boxes. His head stretches and he can _almost_ see inside…

“Crowley!”

The box falls shut as Crowley whips his hand back and jumps at the sound of Aziraphale’s delighted voice.

“Angel,” says Crowley as calmly as he can while his heart is trying to beat its way out of his chest. “What’s all this then?”

“Decorations!” Aziraphale still sounds delighted. He crosses the room towards Crowley, but stops after only a few steps. “Is that—”

Aziraphale is looking right at Crowley, who begins to fidget.

“Is what what?” he asks, looking anywhere be at Aziraphale looking at him and his not-black shirt.

“Nothing, not important.”

Crowley dares to look over at Aziraphale, only to see him shaking his head slightly and stepping forwards once again. This time the pang in Crowley’s chest is harder to ignore.

Aziraphale throws open several boxes with obvious glee. He pulls out fairy lights, baubles, tinsel, bunting, figurines, and more. Crowley begins to wonder how deep these boxes go… certainly some of these decorations look like they’ve come straight from hell. The tinsel, in particular, offends him is some way he can’t even describe.

“Do you want to help, my dear?” asks Aziraphale, turning to Crowley with a gaudy Santa Claus figurine in his hands.

“I, er… I’ll make some mulled wine, yeah? Offer moral and alcoholic support.”

Aziraphale smiles at him and allows Crowley to escape to the kitchenette.

The mulled wine they had the previous evening had been so tasty, Crowley is not sure he will ever want red wine at room temperature again. He sets to the task of mulling his own with a seriousness he hasn’t employed since pouring holy water from a flask into a bucket.

Half an hour, two bottles of wine, one large orange, four cinnamon sticks, and a handful of cloves later… Crowley is done. He pours two glasses and takes a sip of his hard work. While it’s not as good as the wine from the Christmas market, it’s drinkable. With a shrug, Crowley concedes that he might not be giving up non-mulled wine just yet.

Picking up the glasses he strolls back out to the main room. He immediately pauses and takes a large swig of his wine.

“How’s the decorating going, angel?”

“Wonderfully,” Aziraphale calls down from the ladder he’s up, strewing fairy lights carelessly across the top of bookshelves.

As Crowley surveys the entire scene, he finds his wine rapidly disappearing. There are baubles hanging from lamps and corners of picture frames. Large glittery bunting that spells out _‘Be merry and bright’_ is strung crookedly across the end of three bookcases. Porcelain figurines abound, cluttering up the shelves and obscuring the books. And okay, Crowley can’t fault Aziraphale for that last one, the cunning bastard.

However the worst offender is, of course, the tinsel. Aziraphale has tossed the stuff _everywhere_. Along the back of the sofa, around windows and door frames, twirled around the banister, dangling from light shades. Crowley fears if he stays still too long he’ll end up with tinsel wrapped around his neck, and considering how often he naps on the sofa, he feels this is a legitimate worry.

“I was only in the kitchen for thirty minutes, right?”

“I work fast, my dear! What do you think?”

Aziraphale descends the ladder and stands in the middle of the room, hands on hips, appraising at his work.

“It’s very… festive,” answers Crowley truthfully.

With a satisfied sigh Aziraphale turns away from his decorations and towards Crowley.

“Ah, is that mulled wine for me?”

Crowley looks down at the two glasses—one of them empty—and holds out the full one to Aziraphale.

“Not as good as the stuff from the market, I’m afraid, but passable,” admits Crowley, before wandering back to the kitchen to pour himself another glass.

They sit in their usual spots, relaxing and chatting as normal. The time passes as pleasantly as it always does. A few more glasses of mulled wine and Crowley’s eyes begin to droop behind his sunglasses.

“You’re tired,” states Aziraphale. He can always tell, sunglasses or no. “Why don’t you lay down and have a nap?”

Crowley’s eyes are suddenly alert, darting around looking for wayward tinsel.

“Don’t decorate me!” he cries.

“I don’t need to.” Aziraphale’s voice is light and amused. “You’re already looking _quite_ festive in that lovely shade of red.”

Crowley is sure his face begins to turn a shade of red, too. “Shut up.”

Aziraphale just smiles as he gets up from his chair. He crosses to Crowley and pushes him down to lay on the sofa.

“Sleep. I fancy a trifle, so I’m going to be in the kitchen whipping one up. We can have a bowlful with a nice cup of tea when you wake up.”

Crowley lets himself be pushed before taking off his sunglasses and closing his eyes. He listens carefully as Aziraphale makes his way to the kitchenette and begins to gather his pans and ingredients. When he’s sure Aziraphale is occupied and not coming back, Crowley opens his eyes and springs up from the sofa. He looks around once again at the haphazard decorations, then gets to work.

When Aziraphale exits the kitchenette a while later, freshly made trifle in his hands, Crowley is slouched artlessly across the sofa and wide awake.

“How’d your trifle making go, angel?”

“Fine,” says Aziraphale absently as his eyes drift across the room. They land on Crowley. “Did you enjoy your nap?”

“Very much so. Shall we eat?”

They eat. And neither of them mentions the fact that the baubles are now hanging tastefully from little hooks in the ceiling. They don’t comment on the fact that the glittery _‘Be merry and bright’_ banner has been moved so it can be seen as you enter the front door. Nothing is said about the fairy lights now neatly bordering most of the bookshelves.

Aziraphale does smile at Crowley a lot, though. Crowley isn’t sure if it’s because of the improvements he’s made to the decorations, or the fact that he didn’t touch any of the innumerable tacky figurines still concealing all the books.

The tinsel is burning in hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No tinsel was harmed in the creation of this chapter. (I'm actually a big tinsel fan!)


	5. Shepherd

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One of Aziraphale’s Christmas figurines looks awfully familiar to Crowley.

The day is bright and clear as Crowley makes his way towards the bookshop. He has a peppermint flavour white hot chocolate in one hand and nothing in the other, having been daring enough to order nothing for himself. His shirt is black, but just as he’d left his flat he’d thrown on an emerald green scarf.

He enters the bookshop with a smile on his face and a bounce in his step, then quickly quells them lest Aziraphale see.

“Angel?” calls Crowley when he doesn’t immediately spot Aziraphale.

There is no response. As he unwinds his scarf and throws it onto the coat stand by the door, Crowley wonders where Aziraphale is. Probably caught up in a book, oblivious to the outside world, or out buying sushi. Either way, Crowley will wait for Aziraphale to find him in his own time.

Crowley drifts over to one of the bookshelves, taking a closer look at the tacky Christmas figurines he hadn’t bothered doing anything with yesterday. There is a teddy bear with a Santa hat on and a large present between its legs. A blue car with a Christmas tree strapped to its roof. A snowman with a top hat and carrot nose. A shiny red boot overflowing with candy canes. A penguin wrapped up in a purple scarf and gloves. A robin sitting on top of a post box.

Dozens upon dozens of them, filling every nook and cranny on the shelves. No two the same, as far as Crowley has seen so far. He wonders where Aziraphale got them all.

One particular figurine catches Crowley’s eye and his brows draw together as he leans in closer. It shows a shepherd, crook in hand and a sheep at his feet. It stands out from the rest as being far more traditional and religious, but more than that—Crowley is almost sure he _recognises_ it. He stares at the small shepherd, racking his brain for where he could’ve seen it before.

Crowley is pulled from his thoughts by the sound of humming. He follows the sound to find Aziraphale, sitting primly at his desk with a pen in his hand. The tune he’s humming is decidedly festive.

“Aziraphale,” says Crowley. “Have you been here the whole time?”

When he gets to response, Crowley approaches and taps Aziraphale on the shoulder. Aziraphale jumps slightly and pulls wires from his ears. The sound of a piano and singing can now be heard, faint and tinny, from the end of his earphones.

“Crowley, hello! How long have you been here?” Aziraphale leans back to look around Crowley, as if might have caused some kind of chaos in the shop while left unattended. Which is fair, actually.

“Not long. Got you this.” Crowley puts the candy cane flavour hot chocolate on Aziraphale’s desk. “Are you listening to Christmas music on an MP3 player?”

“Oh, thank you!” Aziraphale takes a sip of the drink and oohs delightedly. “I’m afraid I don’t know what an em pee three is, but the lovely ladies at the charity shop up the road sold me this _personal cassette tape player_ and several _cassettes_ , including this one called _Now That’s What I Call Christmas_. I don’t know, or particularly like, every song, but there are several I’m familiar with. I’m having a fantastic time listening to them while I write my Christmas cards!”

Crowley’s gaping and he struggles to find words. “Why?” he gets out.

“Well, you weren’t a big fan of the Christmas music I was playing the other day, so I wanted a way to listen to it myself, without inflicting it on you.”

“You weren’t _inflicting_ it on me, angel. I just wasn’t prepared at the time, and then… you know, it’s _fine_. You can listen to Christmas music however you want, don’t mind me.” The pang Crowley feels is quickly becoming a familiar sensation and he doesn’t want to analyse why or what it means. He looks away, up at the baubles hanging above Aziraphale’s desk.

“Are you okay, my dear?” asks Aziraphale as he stands from his desk and reaches out to Crowley.

When Aziraphale’s hand touches his shoulder, Crowley snaps out of his shock.

“Shepherd,” he blurts, suddenly desperate to change the subject.

Aziraphale frowns. “Excuse me?”

“The shepherd. Over there.” Crowley motions over his shoulder towards the bookcases.

“What, er.” Aziraphale clears his throat. “What about it?”

“I’ve seen it before.”

“Well, there must be thousands of porcelain shepherds in the world. You’ve probably seen dozens of them.”

Crowley narrows his eyes and shakes his head. “No.” He turns and walks back to the figurine on the shelf. “I don’t come across a lot of these in my day-to-day. They’re kind of niche.”

“I don’t know what you mean, they’re ten a penny. I see them everywhere, especially at this time of year.”

“Yes, that’s it!” says Crowley, slapping a hand to his thigh in triumph. “I’ve seen this little fella in the small nativity scene they have set up at the fence of the church up the road.”

“I don’t think— I mean, _really_ — I’m sure it’s just—” Aziraphale blusters.

“You _stole_ it!” Crowley’s eyes go wide and he can’t keep the glee from his voice.

Aziraphale’s mouth clamps shut and looks at Crowley with pleading eyes.

“You did. You stole a shepherd from the church nativity display. Hang on—” Crowley closes his eyes for a moment, trying to picture the wooden box full of porcelain figures he’s passed every day since the start of December. His eyes snap open. “—You’ve moved things around in there too, haven’t you? There are sheep eating out of the manger and baby Jesus is on the floor. The wise men are standing at the back, behind the other two shepherds, animals, and the angel.”

Aziraphale huffs, then lets loose. “There were only ever two shepherds, Crowley—I know because I was there! I _gave_ them the bloody message. But so often nativity scenes have three of them, why? To be even with the magi? They only got _that_ number right because of the stupid gifts. And they didn’t put the baby in a manger—the animals were still eating from it! As for the _wise_ men—they weren’t wise at all. They were _late_ , and therefore relegated to the back. I wasn’t about to give up _my_ spot for three idiots who got lost following a star!”

When he’s finishes, Aziraphale takes a deep breath and lets out a large, heavy sigh. Crowley bites his lip and tries not to laugh.

“And you go around fixing nativity scenes often, do you?” asks Crowley, voice singing with amusement. “Get involved in the local school’s amateur dramatics, telling five year olds where to stand and firing one of the shepherds?”

“Of course not, that would be ridiculous.”

“ _That_ would be ridiculous?” asks Crowley before pointedly turning to look at the pilfered shepherd.

“I pass that nativity scene every day on my way to that wonderful French bakery for their croissants… it _bothers_ me.”

Crowley can’t hold back any more. He looks at Aziraphale, indignation writ across his face. He imagines him leaning over the wrought iron fence of the church yard to reach the box containing the figurines, shuffling them about and pocketing one of the shepherds. He laughs.


	6. Joy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale wants to do something to help bring a little joy to others. Crowley is reluctant.

The door of the bookshop hasn’t even shut behind Crowley when Aziraphale calls out to him.

“We’ve been selfish!”

Stopping abruptly, Crowley takes in the scene. Aziraphale is sitting on the floor in the middle of the room, surrounded by boxes. Crowley has a sudden sense of deja vu.

“Those aren’t more decorations, are they?”

Crowley takes a step back, colliding with the closed door behind him. If he even _sees_ and flash of tinsel he’s going to run.

“What?” Aziraphale glances around at the boxes. “These? No, no. These are gifts.”

“Oooh.” Crowley steps swiftly forward, suddenly interested.

“They’re not for _you_.”

“Oh.” Crowley redirects towards the sofa and drops himself into it.

Aziraphale extricates himself from his plethora of boxes and makes his way over to Crowley.

“They’re biscuits, toiletries, toys, books, and jigsaw puzzles. I thought it would be nice to wrap them up and then drop them off to food banks, children’s homes, and nursing homes.”

Aziraphale is so earnest and passionate. Crowley can tell he’s been full throttle on this idea all night and all morning.

“Is this because of that figurine you stole from the church?” asks Crowley.

“No,” says Aziraphale, even as his eyes wander over the bookshelves where the porcelain shepherd still resides. “ _No_ ,” he repeats with more force. Aziraphale looks back to Crowley. “It’s because we’ve been doing all these lovely festive things—Christmas markets, dancing, decorating—while there are people who don’t have that luxury. People in circumstances much worse than ours. We’ve been _selfish_ , and I want to help spread joy to others, even if it’s just a small gesture.”

Crowley rolls his head back on the sofa and groans.

“There are _always_ people in worse circumstances than us. Always _have_ been. We can’t help everyone, angel.”

“But that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t help _anyone_.”

“ _I_ shouldn’t—I’m a demon, remember?”

Aziraphale sighs. “I thought we were past this, Crowley. We don’t work like that any more. We gave it all up to stay here, with the humans. Remember? Doesn’t _our side_ include the humans? Shouldn’t we at least try to give back, after everything they’ve given us?”

He gestures with his arms, encompassing the shop, with its books, musty smell, and well-worn sofa… but Crowley knows he also means London, with its theatres, parks, and restaurants. Britain, with its motorways, countryside, and coasts. Earth, with its _everything_.

Now it’s Crowley’s turn to sigh.

“It’s one afternoon out of the infinite number we have,” says Aziraphale reasonably.

“An afternoon I _could_ be spending in bed,” replies Crowley petulantly. “Who _are_ these people, anyway? Humans as a whole are a heady mix of bat shit wonderful, but individually? They’re—”

“Children, Crowley,” interrupts Aziraphale. “Most of them are children. Children relying on food banks to eat, children in the foster system with no family to love and care for them. Children that won’t experience a drop of joy this Christmas, unless we do something to help. Something so small to us, but so tremendous for them.”

Crowley groans, long and loud into the quiet of the shop. “Ugh, _fine!_ ”

Aziraphale knows full well what he is doing, playing the children card, but Crowley is helpless to ignore it. He _does_ ignore the small, satisfied smile on Aziraphale’s face.

“What have I got to do then?”

“Help me wrap all these presents.” Aziraphale points to the boxes still loitering in the middle of the room.

“Okay. On one condition.”

“Hmm?” Aziraphale hums his enquiry.

“Tomorrow, we do something relaxing and just for us.”

“Okay, and what did you have in mind?”

“Don’t worry about it, angel. You leave everything to me.”

With that settled, Aziraphale claps his hands together and stands up. He moves to the boxes and carries on sorting the gifts for wrapping. Crowley meanders over to the gramophone and randomly picks a record. _A Jolly Christmas from Frank Sinatra_. Crowley shrugs to himself, choosing to disregard the smile pulling at his own lips. It’ll do.

They wrap presents for the rest of the afternoon and well into the night, singing along to Christmas songs. Crowley gets sellotape in his hair, Aziraphale uses too much ribbon, and the both have fun. Not that Crowley will ever admit it.

In between the singing and the wrapping and hiding his genuine joy from Aziraphale, Crowley _also_ schemes and plans on his phone in preparation for the following day.


	7. Blankets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Aziraphale get cosy and watch Christmas films.
> 
> Or: Oh no, there’s only one blanket!

There is a large van parked up outside the bookshop when Crowley arrives. He sees a man exit the shop, close the back door of the van, hop into the cab, and drive away. Crowley rubs his hands together in anticipation as he pushes open the shop door and steps inside.

“Oh no, not _more_ , I thought you said that was the last?”

“Angel?”

“Oh Crowley, it’s you, thank goodness.”

Aziraphale is, once again, standing amongst a sea of boxes. At least this time, Crowley knows _exactly_ what’s in them.

“They all arrived then? That’s good.”

“What on _Earth_ have you had sent here? They’re all addressed to you!”

“Well that one—” Crowley points to the large, flat box right in front of Aziraphale. “—will be the television.”

“Television? I don’t _want_ a television. If I’d wanted a television I would have got one years ago.”

“That may be, but for my festive, relaxing, just for us plans, a television is needed.” Crowley sees Aziraphale take a breath, and before he can start bemoaning the invention of visual media, Crowley continues. “If after today you don’t want to keep it we can take it back, or donate it to some good cause. You don’t have to keep it.”

Aziraphale harrumphs, but gives a stiff nod of agreement.

“There should be a blu-ray player and some Christmas films in here somewhere, too.” Crowley gets stuck in sorting out the boxes.

Aziraphale seems to perk up at the words ‘Christmas films’ and Crowley inwardly cheers.

“And what about the rest of them? What exactly is it you have planned?” asks Aziraphale.

“There’s a bunch of cosy stuff in the other parcels. Blankets, popcorn, Christmas pillows, sweets, a bit of festive fancy dress fun… I’ll leave those boxes for you while I take the TV upstairs and get it set up, okay?”

Aziraphale is staring open mouthed at Crowley, the only movement a rapid blinking of his eyes.

“Angel? What is it?”

Aziraphale’s mouth snaps shut and then he says, “You bought blankets, and food, and festive fancy dress?”

“Yes?” says Crowley, suddenly worried he’s done the wrong thing. “If you don’t want—”

“I want!” Aziraphale quickly assures him. “I want. You go—” He makes a shooing motion with his hands at Crowley. “—do what you need to with that contraption. I’ll open the _important_ boxes.”

Crowley grins freely as he grabs the things he needs and manhandles them up the stairs to Aziraphale little-used flat.

The set up doesn’t take long, when it’s being done by an occult being who doesn’t _expect_ it to take long, and in no time the TV and blu-ray player are ready to go. Crowley fiddles with the remote, finding a channel playing nothing but a roaring log fire, and relaxes back on the flat’s lesser used sofa.

“Did you want the Santa hat or the antlers?” asks Aziraphale as he wanders into the room, arms full of swag from the boxes.

Before Crowley can answer, Aziraphale looks up and sees the fire on the TV. He oohs appreciatively, and Crowley gives himself another pat on the back.

“I’ll take the antlers, obviously.” Crowley extracts them from Aziraphale’s full arms and places them on his head.

“Obviously?”

“They’re _basically_ horns.”

Aziraphale snorts, dropping the rest of the things on the sofa beside Crowley and ramming the Santa hat on his head. He looks _adorable_.

“You look adorable.”

“Well, thank you, my dear.” Aziraphale looks away and turns ever so slightly pink. “I’ll just make the popcorn, shall I?”

Aziraphale grabs a couple of packets of popcorn and disappears into the flat’s kitchen. Soon enough the sound of popping kernels can be heard. Crowley dives into the other bits and bobs Aziraphale brought up, finding several cushions, bags of pick and mix, bottles of wine, and… a solitary blanket.

“Aziraphale, you only brought one blanket up!” he calls out to be heard over the popping in the kitchen.

The popping stops and a few seconds later Aziraphale appears in the doorway holding a bowl piled high with popcorn.

“I’m afraid there was only one blanket delivered, my dear.”

“What? I ordered about five! Right—” Crowley fishes his mobile phone from his pocket. “—let me call the shop, that’s not on. I’ll give them a piece of my mind until they agree to _hand deliver_ a load more blankets.”

“Oh, Crowley, no. No, please, don’t bother.” Aziraphale rushes over, depositing the popcorn on the coffee table and grasping Crowley’s wrist. “It’s _fine_. We can can manage with one blanket, it seems plenty big enough!”

Crowley looks up at Aziraphale and frowns. “Are you sure? I wanted you to be able to get as comfy and cosy as possible. How will you be able to do that with just one blanket?”

Aziraphale releases Crowley’s wrist and holds his hand instead. “Oh, we’ll manage,” he says as he squeezes Crowley’s hand.

Crowley squeezes back and smiles.

“So,” says Aziraphale as he drops down on the sofa beside Crowley and throwing the blanket over the pair of them, “what film are we watching first?”

“Definitely this one.” Crowley holds up a DVD.

“ _Miracle on 34th Street_ ,” Aziraphale reads from the cover.

“You’re going to _love_ it, angel.”

Aziraphale does love it. He awws over the young girl and her disbelief in Santa, he gasps at the arrest and mistreatment of Kris Kringle, and he sobs with joy at the city’s support and belief in him. Over the course of the film, while reaching for their glasses of wine and handfuls of popcorn, they inch closer together under the blanket.

Next, Crowley puts on _The Grinch_ , hoping to elicit an eye roll and begrudging smile from Aziraphale at its over the top silliness but undeniable feel-good fun. He’s disappointed—Aziraphale laughs along with genuine delight the entire time, which is actually infinitely better.

Of the Grinch, Aziraphale says, “Oh look, Crowley, it’s you!”

“ _First_ of all, that shade of green is _not_ my colour, and secondly… I’m not that bad am I?” Crowley can hear the slight whine in his own voice, but can’t prevent it. “I made mulled wine. I wore your ugly jumper. I’m here, wearing blasted antlers and watching Christmas films with you.”

Aziraphale’s face, previously alert and grinning, becomes soft. “No, my dear, you’re not that bad at all.” Underneath the blanket, Aziraphale’s hand comes to rest on Crowley’s knee.

By the third film they have cracked open the pick and mix, ready for a sugar high to see them through another few hours. When the _Home Alone 2_ titles start rolling, Aziraphale sits up, suddenly anxious.

“But I haven’t seen the first one!” he cries.

“There’s no need.” Crowley pulls at Aziraphale’s shoulder until he settles back on the sofa again, this time in the crook of Crowley’s arm. “This is exactly the same at the first film, except it’s set in New York and just… ten times more Christmassy.”

Aziraphale relaxes even further into Crowley, dropping his head to Crowley’s shoulder and pulling the blanket tighter around them both.

“New York always was nice in winter,” concedes Aziraphale.

When Crowley puts his personal favourite Christmas film on, Aziraphale becomes sceptical. Crowley expected this. He has had this debate with many people on twitter before, and he is prepared.

“ _How_ is this a Christmas film?”

All Crowley’s well-rehearsed arguments go flying out the window at Aziraphale’s mocking tone, and Crowley becomes nothing but petulant.

“It’s set at Christmas, during a Christmas party. It _counts!_ ”

“They didn’t even _name_ it anything festive.”

“And what would you have called it? _Saving the Ho-ho-hostages?_ ”

“ _Die Hard This Christmas?_ ” suggests Aziraphale immediately. “ _You’re a Mean One, Mr Gruber? Rocking Around the Nakatomi Tower?_ ”

They stare at each other for a few seconds, film forgotten, before bursting into laughter.

The friendly debate and jokes continue throughout the film, and Crowley has never enjoyed watching Die Hard more.

Before they start another film, Crowley extracts himself from the warmth of the blanket—and the warmth of Aziraphale—to nip downstairs for more wine. He passes the open boxes and remembers that his reindeer antlers were supposed to come with a red nose. He kneels down and begins rooting through the masses of popcorn and sweets (he _may_ have over ordered). Having no luck, he pulls out a box from underneath some others and looks inside. His mouth drops open at what he finds.

Dashing back up the stairs, box held in his hands and wine forgotten, Crowley bursts back into the flat’s small living room. Aziraphale is still curled up on the sofa with the one blanket he’d brought upstairs.

Crowley drops the open box containing the other four blankets he’d ordered to the floor at Aziraphale’s feet.

Aziraphale looks down at the box, then up at Crowley. “I can explain.”

Crowley opens his hands, palms up, to indicate that Aziraphale should.

“I got one blanket out of the box and hid the others under other boxes because… because I wanted to snuggle with you, Crowley. Five blankets and a mountain of pillows might be comfy, but it’s not as comfy as _you_.”

His face feeling flushed all of a sudden, Crowley smiles. “You could’ve just _asked_ , angel.”

Aziraphale demurely looks away as he lifts one side of the blanket he’s still under. He turns back to look at Crowley.

“Will you please come and snuggle me, my dear?”

Before he's even finished speaking, Crowley is on the sofa, under the blanket, and in Aziraphale's arms.

“So,” says Crowley, voice muffled by speaking into Aziraphale’s chest, “shall I take the TV back to the shop tomorrow?”

“Well, now, let’s not be hasty,” says Aziraphale. “There are plenty more Christmas films to watch between now at the 25th.”

Crowley hides his grin under the blanket.


	8. O Christmas Tree

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Buying a Christmas tree is a long and arduous process for Crowley, but only because Aziraphale has exacting standards.

This morning, Crowley is outside the bookshop much earlier than usual. At Aziraphale’s request he walks through the door bang on 11:00am, green scarf secure around his neck and fleece-lined gloves keeping his fingers toasty.

Aziraphale is waiting to greet him, similarly wrapped up, but with the addition of a Santa hat on his head.

“Good morning!” exclaims Aziraphale, beaming smiling in place. “Are you ready to go?”

“You’re going to wear that?” Crowley points up at the Santa hat.

“Why?” Aziraphale raises a hand and fingers the edge of the hat self-consciously. “Is it too much? I thought everyone would be festive at the woodland and, well, you got this hat for me yesterday. But if it’s too much…” Aziraphale trails off, reaching high to pull at the top of the hat.

“No!” cries Crowley quickly, stepping forwards and holding out his hands to forestall Aziraphale removing the hat. “It’s not too much. Not at all. I just thought…” Crowley quickly tries to find a substantive way back out of this hole, but only sees one option. “I just thought that if you’re going to wear that, I should really where my reindeer antlers.”

“Really?” Aziraphale’s bright delight is back.

“Really,” assures Crowley, quickly coming to the realisation that he’ll gladly look like a fool in public if it makes Aziraphale this happy. “Did I leave them here last night?”

“Yes! Here they are!” Aziraphale whips them out, seemingly from nowhere, and hands them to Crowley.

“Thanks, angel,” he says as he shoves them on his head and eyes Aziraphale suspiciously.

Aziraphale simply continues to smile, radiating innocence.

Headgear sorted, they go outside and climb into the Bentley. Crowley drives the two hours to Wilderness Woods in 45 minutes, and wonders if they _really_ had to leave so early.

Climbing back out of the car they both take long deep breaths of the fresh, countryside air. There is a strong smell of pine, and it only gets stronger as they walk further into the woodland. At the hub of the site are several huts. One selling food, one selling trinkets and ornaments, and one where you purchase your tree.

It hits Crowley then. They are buying a Christmas tree. The centrepiece of a traditional, commercial, British Christmas.

There are hundreds of trees, all set out for people to look at and choose, before buying, taking home, and decorating. They are organised by size, type, price… Crowley’s not sure where they should start.

“Do you know what variety and size tree you want, angel?”

“Norwegian Spruce. Most definitely. The taller the better. They carry the best scent and I want the bookshop to smell like Christmas for as long as possible. They loose their needles like nobody’s business, but that’s nothing a quick miracle won’t sort out.”

Aziraphale wanders off towards the trees, eyes alight with excitement. And suddenly Crowley doesn’t care about how commercial Christmas has become, how cliché and tacky. Let them get a Christmas tree and indulge in the traditional celebrations. Anything for that wide-eyed, wonderful look on Aziraphale’s face.

The feeling doesn’t last.

“Crowley!” calls Aziraphale. “Crowley, will you come and hold this tree so I can see what it looks like?” There’s a brief pause as Crowley makes his way over. “Oh! And this one—it’s taller, but I’m not sure if it’s as bushy.”

This goes on for at least an hour. Crowley hauls out tree, after tree, after tree. At Aziraphale instruction, he holds them upright and spins them around for inspection. Each and every one is then rejected, and a new tree from the seemingly never ending batch of them is chosen for Crowley to pull out and display.

After an hour and a half Crowley has even forgotten to be embarrassed by the antlers still perched on his head. He has all but zoned out, so he almost misses the hum of approval Aziraphale makes about the tree he’s currently holding.

“This one?” says Crowley, the note of desperation clear in his voice. “You want this one?”

“It’s a gorgeous colour, has a beautiful even spread, and is good and bushy…”

“This one!”

“It’s just not quite tall enough.”

“Aziraphale, this tree is at least eight feet. If anything it’s _too_ tall.”

“No, no, I want one as tall as possible, it’ll look absolutely _magnificent_ under the domed skylight in the shop.”

“Not if you never pick one, it won’t,” Crowley mumbles under his breath.

Aziraphale hums again, and Crowley jumps to convince him that _this_ is the tree.

“What’s taller if the tree isn’t as lush and green and beautiful? And remember, you’ve got to decorate the tree, angel. The taller it is, the more effort that will take. Hanging the ornaments, stringing the lights, tying the bows. It could take you hours.”

Much to Crowley’s surprise, Aziraphale laughs.

“Let’s not be coy, Crowley. I won’t decorate the tree. I will throw the baubles and lights and tins—”

“ _NO_ tinsel!”

“...and _garlands_ on the tree, then _you_ will do the real decorating.”

They stare at each other, obviously both recalling how well the decorating of the shop went a few days prior. Eventually, Crowley caves.

“ _Fine_ , but this is the tree and we’re not having an angel on top.”

“Deal,” Aziraphale is quick to agree.

They net the tree up for the journey home and pay for the thing. Then Aziraphale spends another half an hour picking out decorations for it from the cutesy little hut full of trinkets. And of course they visit the food hut, for Aziraphale to purchase a little snack. He apparently worked up quite the appetite after all the hard work he made Crowley do.

The argument they end up having about needing to miraculously install a roof rack on the Bentley sees them through the entire journey home.


	9. Making a List

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley's Christmas Lists

** Crowley’s Christmas Lists **

What I Would Like For Christmas  
Aziraphale to be happy  
Fancy black leather driving gloves  
For all the tinsel in the world to self-combust  
New plant mister (two new plant misters? One in each hand?)  
~~To move in with Aziraphale~~ ( _Too fast!!_ )

Present Ideas For Aziraphale  
A book (Cookery book? Ask Book Girl for suggestions?)  
Chocolates (obviously. Not a main present)  
A picnic basket (too hopeful? Too _fast?_ )  
A plant (Angel Wings—too trite? Devil’s Ivy—too corny?)  
Dancing lessons (Something a little more up to date than the bloody gavotte)

Present Ideas For The Humans Aziraphale Insists We Visit Before Christmas  
Tracy:  
Ouija board (it’s that or Ann Summers vouchers and I do _not_ want to go there)

Shadwell:  
Baby name book (for better fake name inspiration—Sargent Pepper, really?)

Book Girl:  
Some kind of book? (Ask Aziraphale)

Book Girl’s Bloke:  
Computers for Dummies (Hmm. I did create that series. Time for a new one? Stopping Nuclear Launches for Dummies?)

Adam:  
What do you buy for the antichrist who can bend reality to get whatever he wants?  
Socks

Pepper:  
Rocket thrusters for her bicycle  
Male tears

Brian:  
A life time’s supply of Ben & Jerry’s (I’m told he likes ice cream)

Wensleydale:  
A book? (He seems the bookish type—am I stereotyping?)

Warlock:  
His childhood back???


	10. Candle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley underestimates Aziraphale’s passion for the holiday season: he wants to celebrate Hanakkuh as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am an atheist who has only ever engaged in typically Christian festive traditions. If I’ve got something wrong, please let me know so I can put it right and do better next time. Thank you and I hope you enjoy!

Bag clutched tightly in one hand, Crowley pushes open the door and enters the bookshop with some trepidation. He’s been on edge since the call from Aziraphale this morning, asking him to pick up a few things on his way over. Aziraphale had seemed oblivious to the turmoil his request would cause, and Crowley is loathe to spoil Aziraphale’s joy. He’ll deal with it.

“Angel?” Crowley calls into the shop. “I got what you asked for. Why do you need so many candles, anyway?”

Forty-four. Aziraphale had asked Crowley to purchase and bring 44 taper candles that will burn for 30 minutes. Crowley knows _exactly_ why Aziraphale needs so many.

Aziraphale appears from the back room, eyebrows creased in puzzlement. He has his apron on.

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“Okay, let me rephrase. Why are you planning to light a menorah?”

“Because it’s the first night of Hanukkah this evening.”

Aziraphale’s face is still creased in confusion, as though he cannot see why this would be confusing for Crowley. Crowley closes his eyes and takes a breath.

“Third time lucky,” mumbles Crowley. Then, louder, “Why are you planning to celebrate Hanukkah? I thought we were doing Christmas?”

“We’re embracing the _holiday season_ , my dear. The season also includes Hanukkah.”

“Okay.” Crowley draws out the word. “But they aren’t usually celebrated together. They’re completely different reli—”

“I know that!” Aziraphale cuts him off, and even has the audacity to roll his eyes. “I won’t limit myself, Crowley. However humans choose to believe in and worship God, I’m all for it. This December I’m embracing _all of it_.”

“I mean…” Crowley really can’t help himself. “…mulled wine, pine trees, and festive jumpers aren’t exactly about God, are they?”

Aziraphale doesn’t reply, simply narrowing his eyes at Crowley in lieu of words.

Crowley holds up his hands, bag full of candles still dangling from his left. “Okay, okay, happy Hanukkah. Where do you want the candles?”

“On my desk, please.” Aziraphale brightens. “I’ll be putting the menorah in the window there.”

“Will you…” Crowley trails off, already cursing himself for bringing it up.

“Will I what, my dear?” Aziraphale’s voice is soft and understanding—Crowley suspects he already knows.

“Will you be careful? With the candles… the fire?”

Aziraphale smiles at Crowley, small and warm, as he raises his hands to rub gently up and down Crowley’s biceps. The kindness is excruciating.

“They’ll only burn for half and hour and we’ll be here the entire time. You brought the chocolate coins, too?”

Crowley nods.

“We’ll play dreidel, sing songs, and eat— _fuck!_ ”

With that, Aziraphale turns and dashes back to the kitchen. There is some banging and clattering, and Crowley hangs back for a minute. He stacks up the candles on Aziraphale’s desk and puts several packets of chocolate coins on the coffee table. When the noise abates and no further cursing can be heard, Crowley makes his way over the the kitchen.

“Everything okay in here, Angel?”

“Just dandy! Thankfully I had the latkes on a low heat, so they’re only a _little_ crispy on one side. Nothing a good dollop of apple sauce won’t fix.”

“Not making doughnuts?” asks Crowley casually.

Aziraphale turns a screwed up face to him. “Of _course_ I’m making doughnuts. The dough’s ready I just need to fry them. Can you grab the jam?”

They work in tandem for a while, to finish cooking the latkes and to fry, fill, and dust the doughnuts. By the time they’re done it’s almost completely dark outside. Aziraphale opens a packet of candles, taking two out and placing them in the menorah.

Once the sun has fully set they stand together as Aziraphale lights the shamash and uses that to light the candle on the right. They recite the blessings and the Shehecheyanu, the Classic Hebrew coming easily to Crowley, even though he hasn’t spoken it in centuries.

Crowley doesn’t take his eyes off the candles. After a few minutes, Aziraphale pulls gently on his wrist.

“Come on,” says Aziraphale, “while the doughnuts are still warm.”

They eat, though Crowley is distracted for half an hour, until the candles burn out. Once he finally feels more relaxed, he asks where Aziraphale’s dreidel is. Aziraphale bustles off to get it, coming back with both it and a couple of bottles of wine.

“Kosher, I trust?” says Crowley.

“Oh this occasion, yes, I made sure of it.” Aziraphale raises his head, nose smugly high in the air.

Crowley laughs and cracks open the packets of chocolate coins. They take turns spinning the dreidel, and as the bottles of wine empty, their spins get more and more clumsy and energetic. At one point it spirals right off the coffee table, ricochets off a bookcase and slides under the sofa. Aziraphale has to get down on hands and knees to retrieve it, as Crowley is curled up with laughter.

By the end of the night Aziraphale has a large pile of gelt he is happily munching his way through, and Crowley is falling asleep on the sofa. They didn’t get around to singing any songs, but they have seven more nights. As Crowley slips off to sleep, he actually finds himself looking forward to them.


	11. Dashing Through the Snow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley makes a mad dash through snowy Soho to get to the bookshop before sundown.

Crowley rolls over in bed and reaches blindly for his phone. It was the early hours when he got home this morning, and Crowley knew he’d need to sleep off all that fried food. Squinting at the screen, he checks the time. Almost three o’clock on Friday. Still plenty of time to get to the bookshop before sunset at 3:50pm.

With a groan, Crowley rolls over again, sitting up and putting his feet to the floor. He stretches as he makes his way over the window and throws open the curtains. It’s _much_ brighter than he thought it would be for this time of day, and he blinks into the light while his eyes adjust. When they do, he sees why it’s so bright.

Snow.

This changes his schedule somewhat, and Crowley quickly readjusts his time frame. Because the Bentley doesn’t like snow. Doesn’t _do_ snow. Crowley has tried several times over the years, to coax the car into driving with snow on the ground, falling from the sky, even when it was only threatening to snow. It was no use. When it snows the Bentley is like a dog that won’t go outside to do its business in bad weather, deciding to shit on the kitchen floor instead.

There’s nothing for it. Crowley will have to walk to the bookshop.

He checks the time again. Just gone three o’clock. It’s a half hour walk, so still enough time before sunset. With a nod to himself, Crowley heads to the bathroom to shower.

By the time Crowley is out of the shower, dried, dressed, and accessorised, it’s gone 3:20pm. With a curse, he grabs his coat and scarf and heads for the door—he’s actually going to have to rush now.

He makes it down to the ground floor and out of his building in record time. He strides across the courtyard towards the road, shoes crunching on fresh, crisp snow. The wind bites at his face and he pulls his scarf up higher to keep it at bay.

The streets are busy, humans with shopping bags filling the pavement and getting in his way. He slips a few times in his rush, but corrects himself on long, sure legs. He spares a glance to his watch—3:35pm—he’s making good time. There’s a small terrace up ahead. If Crowley cuts through there he’ll be at the bookshop in less than five minutes, so long as he can keep up this pace.

In his haste, Crowley turns the corner into the terrace too quickly. He tries to lean out of the fall, but only ends up tripping over his own legs and going down in a different direction. He ends up flat on his back on a small patch of ground. At least the several inches of untouched snow made for a soft landing.

He’s going to be late.

Taking a deep breath, Crowley decides to allow himself a few seconds to lose control. He thrashes about, waving his arms and legs, and letting out a cry of frustration. He gets it all out, and feels much better for it.

He quickly stands and checks the time, but he’s distracted from his watch as he catches sight of where he’d fallen. His flailing about on the ground has created a snow angel, and his mood lifts a little further. With a snort of laughter, Crowley ignores the time, and sets off to the bookshop at a fast pace.

The sunlight is quickly disappearing from the sky when Crowley get the the bookshop. He makes it one step up, arm raised to push the door, when the door swings open from the inside.

“Crowley, you’re late! It’s almost—”

Aziraphale stops abruptly, gaping at Crowley on his stoop.

“I know, I’m sorry. I woke up late and it had snowed, so I had to walk, and _I know_ I needed to be here before sunset to light the menorah before Shabbat, but then I slipped and ended up—” Crowley cuts himself off with a chuckle as he remembers the snow angel.

“Forget about that, Crowley, you’re _shivering!_ ”

Only then does Crowley realise how cold he is. Aziraphale reaches out and pulls him inside by the shoulders, before dashing off and quickly coming back with one of the spare blankets from their cosy film day.

“Aziraphale, you don’t need to—”

“Oh yes, I do.”

The blanket is tossed around Crowley’s shoulders before he and the blanket are pulled into Aziraphale’s arms. Crowley basks in the warmth, chill gradually leaving his bones.

“The candles…” Crowley tries to protest.

“We’ve got a few minutes,” says Aziraphale, but he disentangles, leading Crowley across the room and depositing him on the sofa.

Aziraphale has the fresh candles ready, and lights them with the very last shade of daylight in the sky. After reciting the blessings, Aziraphale heads to the kitchen and comes back with two cups of hot, strong, black tea.

When Crowley has sufficiently warmed up he tells Aziraphale about his frantic trip across Mayfair and Soho, including his tumble and his snow angel. Aziraphale laughs so much his eyes twinkle with mirthful tears. Crowley thinks he should be insulted, but wrapped up warm by the blanket and Aziraphale’s enchanting laugher, he couldn’t be happier.


	12. Visiting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale drags Crowley around to visit his neighbours and deliver Christmas cards, but that isn’t all Aziraphale is doing.

“Why do I have to come?” grumbles Crowley as Aziraphale shoos him towards the door of the bookshop.

“Because it’s a nice festive thing for us to do together, for others.”

“I don’t even _know_ these people.”

“You _do!_ ”

Aziraphale is actually prodding Crowley in the back now, all but pushing him to leave the shop. Crowley just really doesn’t want to go.

“You know Esme from the bakery, Shirley at the cafe, and Luca in the wine shop.”

“I have no idea who you’re talking about.”

Aziraphale sighs. “You’d know their faces.”

Apparently deciding on a new tactic, Aziraphale moves around in front of Crowley and pulls him forwards by the wrist.

“If I know these people, why didn’t you ask me to sign any of the Christmas cards?”

Aziraphale takes a breath to speak, but draws up short. Aha! Crowley’s got him.

“Well… I didn’t know… I wouldn’t like to _presume_ …” Aziraphale lets go of Crowley’s wrist to wring his own hands. “If you _want_ to sign the cards, we can get them out and—”

“No, no, it’s fine.” Crowley is quick to reassure Aziraphale and mend the broken look on his face. “I’ll come, but only because you want me to—not because I care about these people.”

Aziraphale hums sceptically, but doesn’t comment. Crowley strides past him to throw open the door. Extending an arm out into the cold, bright street.

“Come on then, angel. Let’s get going.”

“Let’s go to the bakery first,” says Aziraphale as he passes by Crowley on the doorstep. “That way I can get a bite for breakfast as well.”

And so they visit the fancy little French bakery and its head baker (Esme, apparently). Aziraphale gives her his Christmas card and exchanges a few words with her. At one point Aziraphale points over to where Crowley is hovering by the door and Emse looks over at him and waves. Crowley quickly waves awkwardly back before turning away.

By the time Aziraphale is finished and ready to leave, Esme is smiling brighter and the mood in the whole shop is lighter. Crowley and Aziraphale move on.

“I think we should see Shirley at the cafe next,” says Aziraphale as they walk. “I can get one of those gingerbread hot chocolates to wash down my breakfast canelés.”

“I could go for a coffee,” admits Crowley.

It’s busy when they arrive at the cafe, and they queue politely for several minutes. By the time they reach the counter, the woman behind it (Shirley, apparently) looks more harried than normal.

“Shirley, my dear, how are you doing?”

“Mr Fell, always a pleasure. I’m busy, but good. What would you like today?”

Crowley slinks off to the side while Aziraphale orders their drinks, chitchats with Shirley, and gives her a Christmas card. They talk of inconsequential things—how much longer the mail is taking in the run up to Christmas, what time the cafe is closing on Christmas eve, Shirley’s cousin Dave who got a fancy milk frother and now thinks he’s a barista. Crowley doesn’t know how Aziraphale does it. When his coffee is placed in front of him, Crowley takes it gratefully, sipping at it and zoning out of the conversation completely.

When Crowley hears his name, he quickly zones back in. He’s not fast enough to register what was said, but Shirley looks at him with a soft smile on her face before turning back to Aziraphale, so whatever it was can’t be good—or was good, which is bad.

As they step back outside not long later, they leave the cafe a happier place. Shirley looks fresh-faced and every customer is smiling.

“Where next?” asks Crowley with a sidelong glance at Aziraphale.

On they go.

To the sushi restaurant, where Crowley has no clue what is being said between Aziraphale and the head chef in their perfect Japanese. But Crowley gets another smile and wave, and the air in the restaurant is fresher as they depart.

To the chocolate shop, where Aziraphale spends so long chatting to the owner that Crowley has time to select a moderately sized box of luxury Christmas-themed chocolates for Aziraphale to enjoy later. As he pays, Crowley gets a wink from the cashier before her focus shifts to something over his shoulder. Crowley turns to see Aziraphale and the owner looking across at him, twin smiles on their faces. When they leave a few minutes later, the shop is almost glowing with good energy.

To the young couple who live in the flat above the sex shop down the road from the bookshop. Aziraphale stands on their doorstep whispering closely with them both. Crowley stands, fidgeting on the pavement. His movements only become more erratic when he hears his name and the couple look over at him. The man gives him a thumbs up and the woman laughs, small and warm, before they both look back to Aziraphale. The air surrounding the couple hums with warmth as they say goodbye and close the door.

To the wine shop—their last stop, Aziraphale assures Crowley—where Aziraphale talks animately to the salesman (Luca, apparently) while Crowley browses the shelves. A few nice vintages catch his eye, and Crowley purchases them, still waiting for Aziraphale to finish up. Aziraphale appears to be considering a bottle himself. He has the wine in one hand as he talks to Luca and motions towards Crowley with the other. Luca looks over to him, smiles and nods, before turning back to Aziraphale and pointing out a different bottle of wine. Once their wine has be bought they leave the shop, which is decidedly more cosy and welcoming than when they arrived.

“You blessed them.”

Crowley wastes no time in coming out with it as soon as they’re inside and the door to the bookshop is closed and locked.

“Of course I did,” says Aziraphale as he hangs up his coat and scarf.

Peeling off his own outerwear, Crowley wonders why he was surprised. Yes, _of course_ , Aziraphale blessed them.

“Were the Christmas cards just an excuse?”

“Not completely, but it’s nice to feed two birds from one hand.”

Crowley can only smile.

They settle down into their usual seats and Crowley holds up one of the bottles of wine he bought. It might only be two in the afternoon, but Aziraphale nods.

“What were you telling them about me?” asks Crowley as he pours the wine and hands a glass to Aziraphale.

“Who?” asks Aziraphale, not meeting Crowley’s eye.

“Everyone. At some point they all looked at me and got this… _friendly_ look on their face. What did you say to them?”

“Oh, well, mostly people asked how I plan to spend Christmas, and I told them it was just me and…” Aziraphale still refuses to look at Crowley, and his cheeks were turning rosy. “…and you. That it was our first proper Christmas together, and that so far you’d made it such a special one.”

Crowley can feel his insides squirm in a strangely pleasant way. He’s not sure, but he thinks this feeling is called _delight_. He’s _delighted_ that Aziraphale spoke about him in that way. That Crowley isn’t ruining their first holiday season, and that Aziraphale wants to boast about him to other people.

“Maybe next year,” says Crowley, “we can both sign the Christmas cards.”

Finally, Aziraphale looks over at him. “I’d like that.”

A blush of his own rises to Crowley’s cheeks. He blames the wine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're halfway through! I'm currently a few days ahead with the writing and feeling positive about actually finishing this thing! Wahoo!


	13. Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley stays warm and cosy as a rain storm thrashes down outside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A soft interlude of sorts.

Crowley is warm and comfortable. He doesn’t want to move, so he doesn’t. He registers the softness of the material he is wrapped in, and how it cradles his body. The surface he’s laying on is familiar, but Crowley puts no thought into figuring out what it is—or where he is. Crowley is warm and comfortable and that’s all that currently matters.

Time passes, Crowley isn’t sure how much, only that he drifts in and out of sleep.

At some point, amongst the warmth and the softness, there is something else. A sound. It doesn’t trouble Crowley—the sound itself is a comfort. Like a rustling of leaves, except so much gentler. It, like the surface on which he lays, is familiar.

Crowley continues to drift. Lulled now by the sound and his aversion to moving.

The next time Crowley registers anything, the sound has changed. It is harder, coming quicker, and continues repeatedly. It pulls at Crowley’s memory. More firmly than the other things, demanding more of his attention. Reluctantly, he focuses on the sound.

Rain. It’s rain, hitting a window.

Crowley opens his eyes, the memory coming back to him. Last night, it had started to rain, throwing it down and not letting up. Aziraphale had refused to let him leave, insisting he stay the night rather than go out in such a rain storm. So Crowley hard curled up into some blankets and fallen asleep on the sofa.

He is still there now. Wrapped up, warm and comfortable, as the rain continues to thrash outside.

Lifting his head a little to look over the blankets, Crowley sees Aziraphale. He is sitting in his chair by the desk, book in hand. Crowley wonders if he’s moved at all in the night. As Crowley watches, Aziraphale lifts a hand and turns a page. The sound is as warm to Crowley as the blankets are—it’s the sound he could hear as he slept.

A content sigh slips from Crowley, and Aziraphale looks up.

“You’re awake. Good morning, my dear.”

“Morning, angel,” Crowley replies before a yawn takes over.

“Did you sleep well?”

“Perfectly. Thanks for the use of your sofa.”

Aziraphale smiles. “I think it’s very much your sofa by this point.”

“Our sofa then,” says Crowley as he stretches out along it.

“Ours,” Aziraphale repeats quietly. He closes his book, putting it on the desk before standing up. “It’s still raining out. Would you like a cup of tea?”

Crowley nods and Aziraphale heads to the kitchen.

While Aziraphale is gone, Crowley still doesn’t move. He’s awake, but it is still rainy and miserable outside, and the blankets are still warm and comfortable.

Aziraphale returns, two steaming cups of tea in hand. He puts them both down on the coffee table before moving around it to stand over Crowley. Crowley’s eyebrows draw together as Aziraphale bends over, unsure what he’s planning to do. But Aziraphale simply scoops up Crowley’s feet, turns to sit on the end of the sofa, and then lowers Crowley’s feet to his lap.

“Our sofa,” says Aziraphale by way of explanation.

Crowley smiles.

They spend the whole day there. Christmas music plays quietly as they discuss plans for the coming weeks. Aziraphale reads some Charles Dickens aloud to Crowley. They eating leftover latkes with sour cream. All the while sitting in the glow of the Christmas tree lights, relishing in the sound of the rain against the windows, and drinking copious amounts of hot tea.


	14. Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley makes a nuisance of himself in the bookshop while Aziraphale is out.

The bookshop door is locked when Crowley pushes it, and his stomach drops. The door hasn’t been locked to him for weeks now—always Aziraphale has been inside waiting for him. His first thought is that Aziraphale has decided to go travelling. To take off and do some far flung Christmas blessings of his own, now he’s not taking orders from Heaven. But surely he would have at least _told_ Crowley, even if this wasn’t in their plans for the holidays.

Trying to stay calm, Crowley snaps he fingers and enters the shop.

“Angel?”

No answer.

“Aziraphale?”

Nothing.

Crowley moves around the bookcases and heads straight for Aziraphale’s desk, hoping he just has the earphones of his personal cassette player in again. The chair is empty, but Crowley relaxes a fraction when he sees the note on the desk, addressed to him. He strides over and swipes it up.

_Crowley,_

_Just popped out to get you a few bits for Christmas. Make yourself at home, obviously. I shan’t be long. And no peeking in my bags when I get back!_

_Yours,  
Aziraphale_

Crowley collapses with relief into Aziraphale’s desk chair—then instantly springs up and back out of it. Aziraphale is very particular about his chair. Crowley made the mistake of sitting in it once back in 1863. Aziraphale had been aghast, running Crowley out of it and back to the sofa. He’d claimed it had taken him another two years to get the seat cushion back into the perfect position.

He hopes Aziraphale won’t notice that Crowley defiled his chair this time.

Shucking off his coat and scarf, Crowley tosses them on the sofa and heads to the kitchen. Nothing beats a cup of tea made by Aziraphale, but in his absence, a self-made cup of tea using Aziraphale’s tea leaves and apparatus will do.

He takes down a mug, picks out a nice sounding tea, and reaches randomly for one of the many tea strainers. It’s only as he’s pouring the boiling water into the mug that Crowley realises he’s used the wrong tea strainer. This is the one Aziraphale uses first thing in the morning, and only for the cup of Lady Grey he has to start his day. Crowley’s having a rooibos.

Seizing the strainer, Crowley snaps away the wet leaves inside. He gives it a through wash and dry before carefully replacing it in the drawer. His tea is a little weak, but he decides to forego any milk and try to enjoy it.

He only hopes Aziraphale won’t be able to tell his strainer was used for the wrong tea.

On his way back the sofa, Crowley peruses a few bookcases. There is no rhyme or reason to Aziraphale’s organisation, but Crowley hopes to spot any cookery books to help narrow down what kind he could get Aziraphale as a present. He spots something that looks like it _could_ be about cooking, and reaches to pull the book out for a better look.

So intent on the book, Crowley completely overlooks the small glittery sea turtle figurine on the shelf in front of it. The book glides out and knocks the turtle forwards, off the edge of the shelf, and onto the floor.

Crowley freezes at the sound of breaking porcelain. Whipping his head around, he looks towards the door, as if expecting Aziraphale to come waltzing in at precisely this moment. The door remains shut. Crowley grabs the figurine from the floor and inspects it. It’s missing a small back flipper, but otherwise looks unharmed. Looking around, Crowley can’t see the missing flipper. He puts the book and the figurine back on the shelf.

He can only hope Aziraphale doesn’t spot—or find—the missing flipper.

Deciding it’s not safe for him to wander the shop alone, Crowley heads to the sofa and collapses into the familiar territory to drink his weak tea and wait for Aziraphale.

It’s almost half an hour later when Aziraphale returns, a few bags dangling from his hands. Crowley cranes his neck, but Aziraphale snatches the bags to his chest and disappears upstairs with them.

“No peeking!” he calls behind him as he goes.

When Aziraphale re-emerges his hands are empty, and his smile is large.

“When did you get here?” he asks.

“Only about 40 minutes ago,” Crowley tells him. “Did you get everything I wanted?”

“Who says any of it was for you?”

Crowley waves Aziraphale’s note. “You did. Along with all the chest-clutching theatrics with the bags.”

“It’s all a ruse,” says Aziraphale with a waggle of his eyebrows. “I’m going to make a cup of tea, do you want one?”

“Oh, go on then. A rooibos, please.” His first one really had been too weak.

As Aziraphale makes his way to the kitchen he stops beside one of the bookcases— _the_ bookcase. He turns and Crowley can see his eyes roving over the space. Crowley says nothing, keeping his head lowered and phone out. After several seconds Aziraphale shakes himself and carries on to the kitchen. Crowley doesn’t realised how much he’s tensed up until his body relaxes.

Sounds of mugs being taken down and tea being brewed drift through from the kitchen. Crowley licks his lips in anticipation of a good cup of tea. Then suddenly all the noise stops, and Crowley tenses up again.

“Crowley?” calls Aziraphale.

“Yeah?” he replies, wary of saying too much.

“Did you make a cup of tea while I was out?”

His used cup is on the floor beside him. Surreptitiously, Crowley uses his foot to gently nudge the cup under the sofa and out of sight.

“No…” he calls back.

Another few seconds of anxious silence, and then the noises start up again. Within minutes Aziraphale is coming back through with two cups of tea, smiling as usual. Crowley smiles back and hopes it looks natural.

Crowley can’t help but hold his breath as Aziraphale lowers himself into the chair at his desk. He fidgets a little, but no more than usual, to get comfortable. Aziraphale quickly settles and picks up his tea, taking a long sip. Crowley does the same, relieved beyond measure that he’s got away with it all.

They sip their drinks in silence for a few minutes, and Crowley wonders what takeaway Aziraphale might want for dinner. He looks over, the question on his lips, and is unnerved to find Aziraphale already staring at him.

“Angel?”

Aziraphale eyes narrow slightly.

“You sat in my bloody chair, didn’t you?”


	15. Jolly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At the shopping centre, doing the last of their Christmas shopping, Aziraphale has an idea. Crowley is _not_ on board.

Crowley looks at his lists then down at the bags he has in his hand. He _thinks_ he’s done. He still needs to get some chocolates for Aziraphale, but he’s going back to the chocolate shop in Soho to get more of those Christmassy chocolates—Aziraphale had really liked those.

Satisfied, he shoves his lists in his pocket and looks around for Aziraphale. It’s not long before Crowley sees a bright mop of blond hair heading towards him, and as they spot each other they both smile.

“You all done, angel?”

“Yes! I was sceptical, coming to a shopping centre, but I did get my last few bits.”

“Yeah, wouldn’t want to come here too often, but I figured one trip just to grab the things we’re missing and we won’t have to come back until at least next year.”

“Good, because there are _far_ too many people and I very much wish to lea…” Aziraphale trails off, attention drawn to something behind Crowley and off to the left.

Crowley turns, intrigued to see what horror has caused Aziraphale to malfunction in this middle of his ‘let’s go home and have a nice cup of hot chocolate’ speech. What he sees makes his eyes roll. He turns back to Aziraphale, ready to make fun of it together, but Crowley doesn’t speak. Aziraphale’s face is slack and his eyes are glazed… he looks _tempted_.

“Aziraphale, _no_.”

Aziraphale blinks and looks back to Crowley. “Oh, but Crowley, we _should_.”

“No way, no how, absolutely not.”

“But it’s quintessential Christmas!”

“For children, angel, not for adults. Certainly not for immortal occult and ethereal beings.”

Aziraphale pouts. He actually sticks out his bottom lip and _pouts_. “You’re not fun.”

“I’m fun!” argues Crowley. “Want to dress up in Christmas onesies and go sledding? That’s fun! Want to start a snowball fight with a bunch of kids in the park? That’s fun. Want to bake gingerbread people and pipe icing genitals on them? That’s fun. _This_ —” He points to the spectacle behind him. “—is not fun.”

“How do you know if you’ve never tried it?”

“I’ve never tried skydiving, but I know I wouldn’t find it fun.”

Aziraphale looks compassionate for a few seconds, then switches tactics.

“ _I_ think it looks delightful and would very much like to give it a try,” he says.

Crowley takes a moment, knowing how hard he finds it to refuse Aziraphale something he wants.

“Okay,” says Crowley. “I’ll wait here with the bags while you go.”

“Alone?” Aziraphale turns on the big, pleading eyes—he obviously thinks he’s got this in the bag if he’s already going in for the kill.

“ _You_ would very much like to give it a try, so of course I’m not going to stop you. _I_ would rather wrap my naked corporation in tinsel and walk through Leicester Square. So yes, if you want to do it, you’re doing it alone.”

Aziraphale blinks several times, clearly taken aback by Crowley’s refusal. When he doesn’t respond, Crowley picks up all their bags.

“I’ll take these and meet you in the car, yeah? Take your time, I hope you have fun!”

When Aziraphale only continues to stare at him, Crowley nods, turns, and walks away. He looks back once, at the door to the multi-story car park, and sees Aziraphale looking down, brow creased. Biting his lip and _refusing_ to go back and give in, Crowley pushes forward and heads to the Bentley.

He only waits about 20 minutes. The passenger seat opens up and Aziraphale slips inside.

“Did you do it? Was it as fun as you hoped?”

Aziraphale shakes his head.

“You didn’t do it, or it wasn’t as fun as you hoped?”

“Both, I suppose. I didn’t do it, because I knew it wouldn’t be fun without you.”

And there is it. The thing Crowley fears the most. The crushing guilt of disappointing Aziraphale.

“Angel, I’m sorry, let’s—”

“No, no, Crowley, it’s fine. You very much didn’t want to do it and I shouldn’t have tried to wheedle you into it. _I’m_ sorry.”

Crowley doesn’t know what to say, so he doesn’t say anything.

“But I thought about it, and I’ve got an even better idea.”

Oh no. Dare Crowley ask? He has to. “And what’s that?”

“Well, my dear, I went back and bought you something…”

Which is how, later that evening and after several bottles of wine, Crowley ends up on the bookshop sofa dressed as Santa with Aziraphale sitting on his lap. They both hurt their ribs laughing so much, and Crowley’s certain they both enjoy it a lot more than they would have meeting Santa at the shopping centre’s Christmas grotto.


	16. Twinkling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley sees lights flashing in the bookshop, and it’s not the Christmas tree...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is SO SOFT, I don't know how this happened.

The light catches Crowley’s eye from down the street. Flashing on and off in an irregular rhythm, he can see it’s coming from the bookshop windows. He groans, assuming it to be the lights on the Christmas tree and _knowing_ that it’ll be driving Aziraphale potty.

As soon as he reaches the bookshop, Crowley shoves open the door and dives inside. He heads straight for the Christmas tree, but before he’s taken two steps he can see the lights are turned on and not flashing at all. He pulls off his sunglasses. There is still a flickering of light in his peripheral vision, and he turns towards it.

And there is it. The source of the erratically blinking light.

Standing next to his desk, Aziraphale has half a mince pie in one hand and his personal cassette tape player in the other. He is swaying, with a slight twist at this hips, from one foot to the other as he occasionally wiggles his shoulders. He has his eyes closed and a smile on his face. Aziraphale is possibly the most content Crowley has seen him in… ever, actually.

But there is one thing that, quite literally, outshines all of that: Aziraphale is _twinkling_.

Crowley has seen Aziraphale light up on a few occasions over the millennia. A warm glow at a job well done, back in the early days. A couple of times Crowley has scandalised him enough to cause his halo to slip. And one memorable time he lit up with a pure white incandescent rage at someone foolish enough to attempt stealing one of his books.

This, though, is something new.

The light glows from Aziraphale’s every pore at a slowly pulsing, sporadic rate. It seems to start in the middle of his chest and emanate outwards to his limbs, but at an unpredictable speed and varying pattern. It is actually quite beautiful. Crowley pauses for a moment, hesitant to disturb Aziraphale’s calm.

When Crowley spots two figures out on the street pause and attempt to look in through one of the windows, the spell is broken. He steps forward and reaches out a hand to Aziraphale. His fingers graze gently over a forearm and Aziraphale opens his eyes to smile at Crowley. The light show increases slightly in speed.

“You’re twinkling.”

Aziraphale presses a button on his cassette tape player and pulls the buds from his ears.

“Crowley!” he says, with another pulse of light. “Sorry, what did you say?”

“You’re twinkling, angel.” Crowley’s voice is laced with affection which he doesn’t even want to hide.

“Oh?” Aziraphale looks down at himself, at the soft light swirling under his skin. “ _Oh_.”

Aziraphale’s cheeks colour slightly, and the light there turns a pale pink. Crowley can’t tear his eyes away from it.

“It’s beautiful,” Crowley tells him, honestly.

The pale pink light darkens to a soft red, and Crowley can’t stop the hand that reaches for it. He glides a thumb over the warmth of Aziraphale’s cheek. The light pulses stronger and Crowley blinks, pulling his hand away.

“But there are—” Crowley gestures towards the window, where the two figures have moved on. “— _were_ people looking in. I could see your light from down the road. You might need to, you know, turn it off. Or at least down?”

“I don’t remember turning it _on_.”

Aziraphale turns away and puts his cassette player down on his desk. The half a mince pie in his other hand disappears into his mouth.

“Have you ever—” Crowley waves his hands about, encompassing Aziraphale’s general form. “— _twinkled_ before?”

“Not that I recall. I glow, now and then. And there’s been the odd halo peek-a-boo.” Aziraphale looks pointedly at Crowley, then back down at his body. “But it’s always been one, consistent light emanation. _This_ is… something else.”

The light show has slowed down significantly, but shows no sign of stopping.

“What have you been doing today?” asks Crowley.

Aziraphale shakes his head. “Nothing special. Pottering about, listening to music. I baked some mince pies earlier this afternoon. I put in a rather large splash of that nice brandy you’re fond of. And then I had to try them, of course, so there were only a few left, but I didn’t think you’d mind. I got to thinking about how _lovely_ it’s been seeing you every day, and spending time with you doing things for the holidays. Or sometimes doing nothing at all, but doing it together. And then I couldn’t stop _smiling_ , so I put my personal cassette tape player on and had a grand time listening to some sentimental songs and letting my body move while I ate a few more mince pies. I’m going to have to bake some more, I’m afraid. And then you were here and…”

Trailing off, Aziraphale finishes his little speech with a content sigh. Crowley smiles so much his face aches.

“You’re twinkling wildly again.”

“Oh _bother_ ,” says Aziraphale as he looks down at his arms.

“You’re _happy_ ,” Crowley tells him.

“Of course I’m happy, my dear, why wouldn’t I be?”

Crowley shakes his head. “I mean you’re truly, unabashedly, completely _full_ of pure and absolute joy. It’s perfect. _You’re_ perfect. I—” Crowley cuts himself off and just grins at Aziraphale.

Aziraphale’s light picks up its pace even further as the glow from his cheeks become a deep red.

“You’re not helping,” says Aziraphale.

“Oh, I’m not trying to help any more. I want you to twinkle like this all the time.”

“But what about people looking in? You said—”

“All. The. Time,” Crowley interrupts him. “Throw open the windows, let everyone see. In pubic, even, let’s go to the bakery right now. You could cook Esme’s croissants with the glow of your face alone.”

“You’re making fun of me, now.” Aziraphale’s light dims a little.

“Okay, the oven cheeks thing was a bit much, but I stand by the rest. You are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, and I love seeing you happy. So, knowing you’re twinkling because you’re so full of unrestrained joy… it’s instantly the most beautiful you’ve ever been. I love it. I—” Crowley refuses to stop himself this time. “I love _you_.”

Aziraphale’s light abruptly turns off.

“Fuck,” blurts Crowley. “I’m sorry. Let me—”

Suddenly the bookshop is filled with light. It is soft and warm and gentle against Crowley’s skin. He lifts a hand instinctively to his face, but the light isn’t harsh enough to hurt his eyes.

“Aziraphale?” asks Crowley gently, into the heart of the light.

“I’m sorry, my dear, I don’t seem to be able to turn this off, either.”

Crowley moves to stand in front of Aziraphale. He can just make out his face amongst the light, and reaches out to hold it with both hands. He draws even closer, touching their foreheads together.

“I’m sorry,” whispers Crowley. “I shouldn’t have said it. It’s too fast—”

“No,” interrupts Aziraphale, “it’s not. It’s perfect. And I— I—” As Aziraphale struggles with his words, his light begins to dim and recede.

“It’s okay, angel. You don’t have to say it.”

“But I _feel_ it.”

Crowley nods, forehead still held against Aziraphale’s.

“I know.”

Standing quietly in the middle of the bookshop, arms around each other, Aziraphale’s light gradually fades. They don’t move for a long time.


	17. Let Nothing You Dismay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Aziraphale have very different reactions when carol singers stop by the bookshop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After yesterday's softness I craved a bit of light-hearted bickering!

As Crowley upends the last of the third bottle of wine into a glass, there is a knock at the bookshop door.

“I’ll get it,” he says as he stands. “It’ll be the sushi we ordered.”

“Ooh, I _am_ hungry!” Aziraphale claps his hands in front of his chest like an excited child.

Just drunkenly merry enough to be smiling for no reason, Crowley throws open the door without much thought. He can’t help but slow blink once at the sight in front of him.

“Aziraphale,” he calls over his shoulder, “I need help reacting to something!”

Aziraphale totters up behind him and looks out of the door over Crowley’s shoulder. He gasps, and Crowley isn’t sure if it’s a gasp of shock, horror, or delight. Anything Aziraphale might have followed up his gasp with is forestalled, as the group of people gathered on their doorstep begin _singing_.

“ _God rest ye merry gentlemen, let nothing you dismay_ —”

Well, he and Aziraphale have got the _merry gentlemen_ part down, that’s for sure.

“How _lovely!_ ” Aziraphale breathes at Crowley’s ear. “I’ll just nip and get our wine!”

It had been a gasp of delight, then.

While Aziraphale is gone, Crowley stares blankly at the carollers, still singing away.

“ _Remember Christ our saviour was born on Christmas day_ —”

He was actually born in September, but Crowley has mostly managed to stay quiet about that over the last 2000 years. He settles for an eye roll behind his sunglasses in the moment.

When Aziraphale returns, wine glasses in hand, Crowley accepts his gratefully and quickly takes a long, deep drink.

“ _To save us all from Satan’s power when we were gone astray_ —”

Crowley feels one of Aziraphale’s hands touch his lower back and stroke, broad and comforting, up and down his spine. For Aziraphale’s sake he decides not to even _think_ a derogatory comment about that line.

“ _Oh, tidings of comfort and joy. Comfort and joy_ —”

And okay, _this_ , at least, Crowley can get behind. The comfort of a glass or wine or fifteen, the joy of seeing Aziraphale’s cheeks get rosier and his smile looser. He feels a smile of his own pull at his mouth. The carollers must see the twitch of Crowley’s lips and take it as tacit approval, because they carry on straight into another verse.

“I’m going to grab some biscuits,” says Aziraphale. He squeezes where his hand rests on Crowley’s hip before slipping away.

Aziraphale quickly returns and they stand through several more verses of one of Crowley’s least favourite carols. (Though who is he kidding? He hates them all.) Crowley nibbles on a solitary biscuit while Aziraphale munches through a few. When the carol finally— _finally_ —ends, Aziraphale offers out biscuits to the group, who accept them gratefully.

“That was simply _wonderful!_ ” gushes Aziraphale, once everyone has taken a biscuit. “Do you know Hark! The Herald Angels Sing?”

Crowley barely suppresses a groan, settling for looking side-eye at Aziraphale, who grins unrepentantly as the carollers begin singing. Towards the end of this second—and thankfully slightly shorter—carol, Aziraphale disappears, mumbling something about hot chocolates. Crowley can’t wait to sink back into the sofa with a hot mug in his hands.

He is disappointed.

Aziraphale appears just as the last note rings out, carrying a tray laden with mugs of hot chocolate for not only for himself and Crowley, but for all the carol singers as well.

“They’re the perfect drinking temperature, so don’t dilly dally!”

As the carollers tuck into their miracled drinks, Crowley turns to Aziraphale.

“Really?” he whispered.

“What?” asks Aziraphale. “They much be parched. I think they’ve more than earned a little hot chocolate!”

“And Hark! The Herald Angels Sing?”

Aziraphale lips tip upwards in a small smile. “That was just a bit of fun,” he admits before taking a drink of his own hot chocolate.

Once everyone has finished their drinks, Aziraphale collects all the mugs, beaming at the carollers.

“Any more requests?” one of them cheerfully asks.

Aziraphale opens his mouth to speak, but Crowley refuses to let him ask for another song about himself, and quickly blurts out his suggestion.

“How about Little Donkey? Always been one of my favourites.”

The carollers strike it up immediately, but Crowley barely pays attention. His focus is on Aziraphale, who is straining with the effort of not rolling his eyes. Aziraphale _hates_ Little Donkey. He only makes it to about halfway through, then Aziraphale mumbles something about nuts and wanders off again. As he requested the damn song, Crowley feels he has to remain.

Only a few lines of song later, Crowley catches a glimpse of Deliveroo turquoise at the back of the group.

“’Scuse me,” he grumbles to the carollers as he steps down from the steps, meeting the Deliveroo rider halfway.

Quickly exchanging the bag of food for a generous tip, Crowley soon ducks back inside. The carollers are still singing and have two verses left when Crowley slams the door closed on them.

“Sushi’s here,” he calls as he wanders back to the sofa.

"Oh, fabulous!” Aziraphale hurriedly abandons his basket of nuts on a shelf and comes to join Crowley. “What about the carol singers?”

"Yeah... they finished,” Crowley tells him as he glances behind him at the closed door. “Left."

“There was _no need_ for you to request Little bloody Donkey.”

“What? I thought you liked that one.” Crowley feigns innocence before stuffing a gyoza in his mouth so he won’t grin and give it all away.

“You know full well I don’t. Pass me the dragon rolls, please, and _don’t_ eat all the gyozas.”

Crowley swallows the second gyoza he’d just popped into his mouth. “They’re my favourite. And you’re an angel, there shouldn’t be a carol you _don’t_ like.”

“Well there _is_ and it is Little blasted Donkey. If you like gyoza so much you should order two portions and stop eating all of mine.”

“Maybe I’ll just order three dozen gyozas and no dragon rolls next time. And what have you got against Little Donkey anyway? Hard working mule, he was.”

Aziraphale takes a breath and actually _puts down_ his dragon roll. Crowley knows he’s in for a lecture now and almost regrets asking. Almost. He grabs another gyoza and settles in.


	18. Gifts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley helps Aziraphale wrap presents.

The first sounds Crowley hears as he enters the bookshop are a mild screech and a shouted curse.

“Aziraphale?”

“Over here!”

Crowley ventures into the bookshop and finds Aziraphale sitting on the floor in front of the coffee table, roll of sellotape in one hand and a messy ball of sticky tape in the other. A thin slip of tape is draped between them, connecting the two. Around him is an array of wrapping paper tubes, gift tags, ribbon, screwed up balls of paper, and not a single wrapped present.

“Wrapping presents?” asks Crowley, unnecessarily.

“ _Attempting_ to wrap presents,” corrects Aziraphale. “It’s not going very well.”

“Can’t tell.”

Aziraphale drops his hands to his lap, sellotape chaos and all, and stares blankly at Crowley.

“Okay, yeah, looks like you’re having a bit of trouble.”

“Will you help?”

Aziraphale opens his eyes wide, but doesn’t turn the wattage up to full. He’s being careful ever since their trip to the shopping centre. It only makes Crowley want to oblige him more. So Crowley lowers his spindly body down to the floor opposite Aziraphale and grabs a roll of wrapping paper.

“What do you want me to do, angel?”

“Swap,” says Aziraphale immediately. He holds out the sellotape—both roll and messy ball—in one hand while opening and closing the other hand in an impatient manner. “I’ll do the paper, you deal with this fiendish creation.” He waves the sellotape for emphasis.

“Thank you, I _did_ invent sticky tape.” Crowley accepts the roll, banishing Aziraphale’s excess mess with a snap once he hands over the wrapping paper.

Aziraphale narrows his eyes. “I knew it.”

“I _did_ also invent a few handy doodads to deal with it, though.” Another snap and Crowley is holding a tape dispenser. He slips the roll easily onto the wheel and gets it set up.

“Why would you create an inconvenience, only to then create the solution?”

“They’re two separate things. Can frustrate the hell out of people, as you so aptly demonstrated, and then they have to spend time and money on a way to mitigate the problem. People will often go for a cheaper option—whether the tape or the dispenser—which of course only causes _more_ problems. Really, it was a win-win.”

Aziraphale, who has been busy cutting sections of wrapping paper, rolls his eyes.

“Just give me a bit of tape, please.”

They go on like that for a while, Aziraphale wrapping the gifts while Crowley provides the pieces of sellotape and light entertainment. Only once those basics are done does Aziraphale then get to the flourishes. The ribbons, the bows, the _decoration_.

Unlike his approach to decorating the shop, Aziraphale is fastidious with his gift wrapping. Measuring the ribbon, curling the ends, matching the colours. He writes long, verbose, meaningful gift tags no one will read in a softly flowing cursive. It takes him hours while Crowley sits back and observes him.

“It’s a shame,” Crowley muses aloud.

“What is?” says Aziraphale as he ties the very last label to the final gift.

“That you spend hours doing all this, only for it all to be torn up in a few minutes once you give them away.”

To Crowley’s surprise, Aziraphale smiles. “It’s all part of the process.”

“Seeing your hard work get destroyed?”

“I spend the time wrapping and dressing the gifts because I enjoy it. It gives me satisfaction. I _also_ enjoy seeing the recipient rip it apart in their excitement.”

Crowley shrugs. “Whatever bakes your cake.”

“Oh—” Aziraphale looks up. “—I could go for a cake.” He shakes his head and points to his pile of perfectly wrapped presents. “Do you want help with yours, my dear?”

“Not necessary. I finished already.”

“Really?”

“No need to sound so shocked. I don’t go through the same rigmarole as you. I just throw them in gifts bags—don’t need to mess around with wrapping at all.”

“ _Crowley!_ ” Aziraphale is clearly scandalised.

Crowley is simply amused. “You’re just frustrated you didn’t think of it, aren’t you? You can dress up a bag just as easy as a wrapped gift, but it’d take you half the time.”

Aziraphale harrumphs but doesn’t deny it. “I notice you didn’t suggest this _before_ I wrapped all the gifts?”

“But you _enjoy_ it, angel. It gives you _satisfaction_.”

Crowley laughs and Aziraphale scowls.

“I’m going to wrap _your_ gifts in tinsel!”

“You wouldn’t!” Crowley actually clutches a hand to his chest in dismay.

“Watch me.”


	19. Faith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley accidentally eavesdrops on Aziraphale while he’s praying.

Even with his stop at the bakery Crowley is running ahead of schedule, and he’s on the step of the bookshop half an hour earlier than he told Aziraphale he would be. He pushes the door and enters slowly, not wanting to distract Aziraphale if he’s absorbed in a book.

As he walks through the shop, cake box in hand, Crowley hears a murmuring voice and moves towards it.

Crowley turns a corner to see Aziraphale at his desk. He’s sitting up straight, elbows on the desktop. His hands are against his chin, palms together, and his head is bowed. He’s _praying_.

Suddenly feeling like he’s intruding on something sacred and private, Crowley instinctively takes a step back. Then, amongst the low murmurs, he hears his name and unconsciously takes three steps forward. He focuses his hearing, intent on Aziraphale’s words.

“...he’s doing it all for me, I know, and I appreciate him so much. It can’t be easy for him, celebrating holidays from religions which have painted him as evil and glorified the beings and actions that took so much from him…”

Crowley hasn’t actually thought about it that much, and he can’t help wondering, now, how much of that was because he didn’t want to. Trees and fairy lights and mince pies aren’t about Jesus or God or any of that, despite the origins of the holiday. It’s been easy to ignore the rest.

“...I’m sure he’d much rather be off causing mischief, probably in a warmer climate, and not stuck here with me. But, the thing is, the thing I know but which he doesn’t like to admit, is that he’s _good_. So good to me. Decorating, cooking, wrapping…”

_Of course I’m good to you_ , Crowley wants to say. _You’re the best thing that ever happened to me_. He won’t say it, of course. A confession of love was bold enough. Crowley doesn’t have the courage to be increasingly emotionally honest and so forthright with his own feelings. He just hopes Aziraphale knows how he feels anyway.

“...all this to say, really, thank you. Thank you for bringing him into my life, for keeping him here after the world didn’t end. Thank you for letting him see something in me, something good enough for him to stick around for...”

And Crowley can’t help but feel a _little_ put out by that. Thanking God, as if She’s the reason he’s here. That he loves Aziraphale _because_ of God, rather than in spite of her. He wonders how he might convince Aziraphale of that, but knows it would be fruitless. Aziraphale has faith. Not in God—they both _know_ She’s exasperatingly real—but in her actions and her plans. In her influence on the world.

Crowley is so wrapped up in his own thoughts he misses the end of Aziraphale’s prayer, tuning back in far too late to step back or move away.

“Amen,” whispers Aziraphale before opening his eyes. Aziraphale remains at his desk, hands in place, back rigidly still. Only his eyes move, growing wide when they spot Crowley. “How much did you hear?”

“Oh, well, erm…” Crowley stalls, unsure how to have this conversation. “ _Some_.”

Aziraphale takes a deep breath and turns to face Crowley, hands now laying flat in his lap.

“I know you’re not overly _fond_ of the Almighty, but—”

“I don’t have to be,” interrupts Crowley. “I’m overly fond of _you_. And you spending time talking to Her isn’t going to change that.”

A smile blooms on Aziraphale’s face and Crowley’s insides go a little soft. He coughs and changes the subject.

“I bought a Yule log! Last night you said you fancied cake, so.”

“Ooh!” Aziraphale is immediately up off his chair and crossing the short distance to Crowley. “You’re a _godsend_.”

Crowley passes the box in his hands over to Aziraphale, and doesn’t correct him.


	20. Sweets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley buys sweets for Christmas, but has to prevent Aziraphale eating them early.

The bags hanging from Crowley’s elbows weight a literal tonne, he’s sure. His muscles scream in protest as he lifts them higher, before they ache in relief as he deposits all the bags on the bookshop’s little-used till counter. It’s only after that he realises the pain in his arms is optional, and shakes off the lingering soreness.

“What’s all this then?” asks Aziraphale as he wanders in from the kitchenette.

“Sweets,” says Crowley simply.

“For me?” Aziraphale peers into one of the bags eagerly.

“For our _guests_.”

Aziraphale’s brows draw together. “They’re not coming for a couple of days yet.”

“I know, but there was a sale, and I figured if I got enough they could last us through Christmas and Boxing day.”

“You know money isn’t an object for us, why does it matter that they were on sale?”

“A bargain is a bargain, angel.”

Apparently undeterred by Crowley’s plans for the sweets, Aziraphale is elbows deep in one of the bags, fishing things out. He lays everything down along the surface of the table in neat rows and piles, oohing and ahhing over each item.

“Candy canes, a classic. Humbugs, obviously for you, Ebenezer Crowley. Quality Streets, lovely but I do prefer— Roses! Wonderful. Celebrations and Heroes… Are they new? I’ve never heard of them, but I look forward to trying them. Chocolate Santas… I still don’t understand why they come hollow, why not fill them with marshmallows or something? Mince pie flavour fudge, oh that sounds ridiculously good. And chocolate cherry liqueurs, my _favourite!_ ”

Crowley watches, indulgent smile firmly in place. But when Aziraphale goes to open the cherry liqueurs, Crowley’s hand whips out to forestall him.

“No, angel. We’re saving them, remember?”

“Really?” Wide eyes turn up to meet Crowley’s, looking both sad and hopeful.

“You’re cute, but you can’t have these sweets.”

Aziraphale’s eyes turn a little dazed. Perhaps by the refusal, perhaps by the compliment, Crowley couldn’t possibly speculate. He hurries on.

“But you can have _these_ sweets.” With an exaggerated wave of his hand, Crowley produces a tray of Ferrero Rocher, two Walnuts Whips, and a box of Turkish Delight.

While Aziraphale gasps and rushes off to make a cup of tea to drink with a Walnut Whip, Crowley swiftly re-bags all the other sweets. He dithers on where to put them, but eventually settles on hiding them behind the Jeffery Archer books that Aziraphale absolutely will not touch, but also refuses to get rid of.

When Aziraphale emerges from the kitchenette with two cups of tea, Crowley is lounging heavily on the sofa, as if hasn’t just been squirrelling away sweets like a pirate burying doubloons. Aziraphale’s eyes flicker to the now-empty till counter, but don’t settle there, and he doesn’t comment.

“Can I tempt you to a Ferrero Rocher, my dear?”

“You certainly can, angel. We need to eat all these so I can replace them with chocolate covered brussel sprouts before our visitors get here.”

“Crowley!” admonishes Aziraphale.

This time it’s Crowley’s go to turn imploring eyes to Aziraphale, who quickly deflates.

With a sigh, Aziraphale says, “Don’t forget to put chopped nuts in the chocolate or they won’t be convincing.”

Crowley grins and pops a whole Ferrero Rocher in his mouth.


	21. Darkness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> During a power cut at the bookshop Aziraphale gets creative with lighting and Crowley gets found out.

Crowley is in the middle of telling Aziraphale about testing out his brussel sprout Ferrero Rochers on the owner of the chocolate shop when the lights in the bookshop go out.

“Blast!” Aziraphale whispers the word, as though the darkness has transformed the bookshop into a library.

Of course, it’s not exactly _darkness_ for Crowley. He sweeps off his sunglasses and allows his serpentine eyes to adjusts to the low light. He sees Aziraphale clear as day, body heat lighting him up like a Christmas tree. Not theirs, though—the lights are out on it. They are plugged in at the mains, which suggests a power cut.

“Power cut, do you think?” Aziraphale is still whispering.

“Reckon so. Hang on, let me check,” Crowley whispers right back at him.

Crowley gets up and moves to the bookshop’s door. He opens it and sticks his head out, looking up and down all the streets around them. Every street lamp and window is dark. Pulling his head back in, he closes the door and goes back to the sofa.

“Yep. Definitely a power cut.” This time Crowley forgets to whisper and his sees Aziraphale twitch in distress. “Sorry,” he says quietly.

“It’s quite alright, my dear.” Aziraphale drums his fingers on his knees. “The last time this happened was in 2018. Lasted for a good few hours. I just popped out my halo and carried on reading.”

“Do you… want to do that now?”

“Oh, no. No, not at all. I suppose it would be a bit suspicious if we just…” Aziraphale mimes snapping his fingers.

“Probably, yeah,” admits Crowley. “Might be seen as a bit of a lighthouse. Get people knocking on the door asking for candles or batteries or something.”

Aziraphale shuddered. “Darkness it is.”

“I can see well enough in the dark. Want me to get us something to drink?”

“Oh, don’t worry yourself, Crowley. I know this old place like the back of my hand. I can get us a bottle of wine in less than two shakes.”

Aziraphale pushes up from his chair and disappears behind the spiral staircase to his wine cupboard. Despite the darkness, he navigates the space with ease and confidence. Smiling, Crowley gets up to grab them some glasses.

On his way back to the sofa with the wine glasses, Crowley is knocked from the side by an oncoming Aziraphale.

“Ahhh!” Aziraphale cries, clutching a hand to Crowley’s arm. His other looks to have a death grip on the bottle of wine. “I didn’t _see_ you!”

“Yeah, whoops. I suppose a familiarity with the surroundings doesn’t account for a moving object. Sorry. I was just getting us glasses.” Crowley holds up the wine glasses to demonstrate, even though Aziraphale won’t be able to see them.

“Oh, yes. Jolly good. Can you see well enough to pour? I’m not precisely sure _which_ bottle I grabbed, but whatever it is I’d rather it go in the glass and then my mouth, than all over the table.”

“I can pour.”

To avoid another collision Crowley follows Aziraphale back to their seats. He puts down their glasses, relieves Aziraphale of the wine, and pours their drinks.

“Here you go, angel,” says Crowley as he holds out a glass.

Aziraphale grasps for it about a foot the left and several inches too high. Crowley stifles a laugh.

“Let me…” Crowley leans across the table and cradles the back of Aziraphale’s hand as he gently presses the glass against his palm. “There.”

“Oh, thank you my dear.”

They drink in relative silence. The only sound comes from outside as people wander by, marvelling at how dark Soho currently is. Eventually, Aziraphale speaks.

“I _really_ dislike not being able to see you, Crowley.” When Crowley doesn’t immediately reply, Aziraphale follows up with, “You _are_ still here, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I’m still here. I wonder if we could conjure up a little light, rather than going overboard with a miracle? Or, surely you have candles?”

“No, not since—but, oh! The fairy lights!” Aziraphale jumps up excitedly. “They’re battery powered—I’m just always forgetting to turn them on.” He quickly bustles off in the direction of the decorated bookcases.

Soon there is a soft glow surrounding some of the bookshelves. While it’s got a cosy feeling, Crowley’s not sure it’s enough to really see by. Aziraphale moves to turn on the second set of fairy lights, but stops before flicking the switch. He crouches down and peers at something on the floor.

“What’s this then?” he says, picking something up. “Huh.”

“What have you found, angel? A stray Ferrero Rocher?”

Aziraphale stands back up, examining the thing in his hand. “It seems to be… a little green flipper.”

Crowley’s eyes widen in horror as the sound of breaking porcelain reverberates around his memory.

“It looks like one of Susan’s, but she’s—” Aziraphale looks over to the array of porcelain figures on his bookcase, pinpointing Susan in seconds and plucking her off the shelf. “Dear girl, _how_ did you lose your back flipper?” He turns, turtle in hand. “Crowley—”

“I had nothing to do with it, don’t know how it could’ve happened, why are you asking _me?_ ”

Aziraphale pauses, looking at Crowley with both eye brows raised.

“I was _going_ to ask you if you’d be able to superglue this flipper back on in the dim light, but now I’d very much like to hear exactly what you ‘don’t know’ about my broken turtle figurine.”

“Why don’t you just fix it with a miracle?”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I couldn’t find the damn flipper and I— _fuck!_ ”

“Aha!” cries Aziraphale. “It was the other day when you were alone in the shop, wasn’t it? I _knew_ there was something off with this bookcase, but couldn’t put my finger on it. You did something in the kitchenette too, didn’t you?”

Crowley groans. “It was nothing, really, there’s no reason to get worked up.”

“Wait. These fairy lights aren’t nearly bright enough and I need to be able to see you while you grovel and explain.”

Wasting no time at all, Aziraphale grabs one set of fairy lights from their hooks on the bookcase and hurries back over to the sofa.

“Where are you?” asks Aziraphale as he holds out the fairy lights to see by their glow.

“Here,” admits Crowley.

“Right… _there_ we go.” Aziraphale drapes the fairy lights around Crowley’s shoulders, winding them loosely around his neck a few times. He stands back and and smiles. “Perfect, you look lovely, my dear.” Then his face becomes serious and he looks Crowley directly in the eye. “Now. Tell me _exactly_ what you did to my tea supplies.”


	22. Friends & Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley have a visit from the friends they saved the world with.

It was mid-afternoon when the bell above the door tinkled and the whole atmosphere in the shop changed. Crowley had been there for over an hour already, helping Aziraphale get set up. Putting out nibbles, miracling up extra armchairs, and, who is Crowley kidding, mostly lounging on the sofa watching Aziraphale do all of that.

Multiple sets of footsteps can be heard making their way inside, along with a lot of muttering. Crowley watches as Aziraphale stands, wringing his hands over his waistcoat as he moves to greet their guests.

Crowley grabs his special tray of ‘Ferrero Rocher’ and goes after him.

“Hello everyone,” says Aziraphale.

“Aziraphale!” cry back a couple of familiar voices.

Before any other words can be exchanged there are several loud gasps and a one awed-sounding “ _Woah!_ ” and then four shorter-than average people are dashing into the shop at large, running between bookshelves and around the spiral staircase.

“Please _do_ be careful, children!” Aziraphale calls after them.

Crowley privately wishes Aziraphale good luck in getting the Them to listen to him.

Aziraphale sighs, seemingly giving it up as a bad job. He shares brief hugs with Tracy and Anathema, a hearty handshake with Newt, and a begrudging nod with Shadwell. Then he ushers everyone to the seating and snacks area.

As they pass, Crowley offers a smile in greeting along with his tray of ‘Ferrero Rocher’.

He gets an, “I don’t think so, love,” and a knowing smile from Tracy.

Anathema says, “No, thank you,” and eyes both Crowley and the tray suspiciously.

“I don’t like to eat in front of other people, if I can help it,” says Newt. But he plucks a chocolate from the tray and slips it into his pocket, so Crowley counts it as half a win.

Shadwell turns him down with a, “Ferrero Rocher are too fancy for my tastes, lad.” He then heads straight for the box of Heroes and digs in.

Crowley scowls, more than a little frustrated his prank isn’t going to plan. He wonders if Aziraphale has prewarned everyone—he _had_ been a little too quick to acquiesce to the whole thing. Flouncing just a little because he’s grumpy, Crowley collapses onto the sofa, thankful to have it to himself.

Keeping himself low on the sofa and radiating an air of unapproachability, Crowley observes Aziraphale chatting animatedly with Tracy, Anathema, and Newt. He proudly shows off his collection of prophecy books, which Anathema shows a polite but unenthusiastic interest it. It doesn’t seem to upset Aziraphale even a jot. Tracy asks what predictions the books contain that have come to pass, and Aziraphale becomes a little flustered and changes the subject.

Crowley smiles privately to himself.

When the subject of Aziraphale’s computer comes up, Newt cranes he neck to get a glimpse of it in the back room.

“Is that a Amstrad PCW?” he asks, sounding not a little flabbergasted.

“I can’t remember what it’s called, but I did get it when it first came out in 1985. I’m not _always_ so behind the times.” With this Aziraphale looks directly at Crowley with his eyebrows raised.

“I’ve not seen one of those outside of a _museum_ ,” says Newt.

Crowley chuckles and raises his eyebrows right back at Aziraphale.

“Does it still work?” Newt carries on, oblivious to the silent conversation between Crowley and Aziraphale. “Can I have a go on it?”

“Ah, no, Newt—that’s probably not a good idea.” Anathema curtails Newt’s excitement with her words and a gentle hand on his arm.

“Yeah, I suppose,” concedes Newt.

Aziraphale jumps when he hears a dull thud from somewhere towards the back of the shop.

“Children?” he calls. “Is everything all right?”

By ‘everything’ Crowley knows he means ‘my books’.

“It’s fine!” call back a chorus of four voices.

It does very little to settle Aziraphale’s nerves. Crowley can see his hands wringing a little tighter than usual.

“I’ll go check on them,” offers Anathema. “I’m sure they’re just antsy after being cooped up together in the back of Newt’s car all the way here.”

Aziraphale flashes her a grateful look and goes back to chatting with Tracy and Newt.

Shadwell seems to be oblivious to the conversation, busy wolfing down as many sweets and chocolates as he can reach. Within 20 minutes he’s leaning back in one of the newly miracled armchairs, eyes closed, mouth open, snoring like a trooper.

In an effort to tune out the sound, Crowley shifts his focus to the rest of the bookshop, and the children currently running around it. They appear to be playing some kind of fantasy game in which they’re trying to rescue an unspecified special old magical book from the evil clutches of someone or other. Crowley's can’t be sure on the details, but he doesn’t have to wonder where they got the idea of a special old book.

The game seems to run its course, with Pepper and Wensley defeating the evil henchmen (Adam and Brian), and ensuring the safety of The Book. Apparently worn out from their adventures, all four members of the Them come over and collapse on and around the sofa with Crowley. Pepper and Brian right beside him, Adam perched on the arm, and Wensley cross-legged on the floor.

“So, were you there when baby Jesus was born?” asks Adam.

“Not personally, but Aziraphale was.”

“And all the wise men and gifts and stuff, that all really happened?” Wensley speaks up from the floor.

“More or less,” says Crowley with a shrug. “Just don’t ask Aziraphale about the shepherds.”

Pepper is straight in with her own question. “Did God ask Mary’s permission to get her pregnant? Because if not that’s technically assault.”

“ _Pass_ ,” Crowley says with feeling.

“If Jesus was walking on water and turning water into wine and things, why wasn’t he accused of witchcraft?” puts in Brian.

“He was, a bit, but—”

“But he was a man, and it’s mostly women who were accused of witchcraft because men are terrified of strong women and would have rather burnt them or drowned them if they couldn’t be kept under control.” Pepper crosses her arms to punctuate her point when she’s finished.

Adam, Brian, and Wensley turn from Pepper to Crowley.

“I mean… she’s not wrong,” admits Crowley.

Pepper lifts her chin proudly. Crowley grins, happy to admit, if only to himself, that he likes her.

Throughout the questions and answers, all four children reach for and idly munch on the many sweets and chocolates covering the coffee table.

Crowley clears his throat and casually asks, “Do any of you want a Ferrero Rocher?”

Four pairs of wide eyes stare back at him.

“Really?” asks Brian in a slightly breathy, disbelieving voice.

“Yes, really. Why?” He wonders if Aziraphale even told the bloody children.

“We’re not usually allowed them,” Wensley tells him.

“They’re _grown up_ chocolates, apparently,” Pepper explains.

“My parents only have them for special occasions, like boring dinner parties and things,” adds Adam.

“Apparently we ‘wouldn’t appreciate them’,” finishes Brian.

All four of the Them roll their eyes in unison.

“Well, that’s absolutely rubbish,” Crowley tells them. “You should eat as many of _these_ Ferrero Rocher as you want to.”

With matching grins of excitement, the children all reach for a chocolate. They hurriedly unwrap them, as though Crowley might change his mind and snatch them back again at any moment. It’s only a matter of seconds before the chocolates are stuffed unceremoniously into mouths.

Crowley is faintly thrumming in mischievous anticipation as he watching them all chomp down onto chocolate covered brussel sprouts.

As one, the children cry out in horror and disgust. Wensley immediately spits his back out into his bare hand. Pepper grabs the tray and drops hers off her tongue back to where it came from. Adam’s jaw hangs open with a look of despair on his face, but the sabotaged Ferrero Rocher remains in his mouth.

Crowley cackles wildly and idly wonders if he's put them off Ferrero Rocher forever. He kind of hopes he has.

Despite the joy his successful prank has brought to Crowley, there is still Brian, who continues to munch happily on his Ferrero Rocher. As everyone starts to realise he’s still eating they all look at him in shock.

Brian shrugs. "What? It's good!"


	23. Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Secrets are revealed when Aziraphale pops by Crowley's flat unexpectedly.

Crowley is bored. It’s a few too many hours early to head to the bookshop. He and Aziraphale have spent time together every day this month, and with the visitors they had yesterday Crowley wants to give Aziraphale time to decompress and be alone with his books.

Which is why Crowley is lounging on the sofa in his flat, his second favourite Christmas film playing on the TV and music blaring from another room. He’s not paying attention to either of them, instead playing a festive edition of Candy Crush on his phone and absent-mindedly sipping on his drink.

Crowley’s eyes glance to the time and he curses internally. It’s still too early to leave. Of course it’s still too early. He only checked the time two minutes previously. He focuses even harder on the little candy canes, Christmas trees, baubles, and bells.

The noise of the TV, music, and game, along with Crowley’s determination to distract himself, in hindsight, is a mistake.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale’s voice is loud in an effort to be heard over the various devices, and Crowley suspects it’s not the first time Aziraphale has said his name.

As his eyes move from his phone screen to Aziraphale, Crowley jumps up from the sofa and immediately panics. He wasn’t _expecting_ this. He snaps his fingers, lowering the volume on the TV, music player, and his phone to a more sedate level. Then he glances around the room, remembering the state of his entire flat.

“ _Crowley_ ,” repeats Aziraphale.

“I can explain!”

“I don’t think you need to, my dear.” Aziraphale isn’t looking at Crowley. His eyes roam over the room as he continues to speak. “I suspected you might be giving me some time to myself, but I missed you. So thought I’d pop by. There was no answer when I knocked so I…”

“Barged in?” Crowley completes for him.

That, at least, draws Aziraphale’s attention. He turns to look at Crowley with soft eyes and a tilted head.

“There’s no need to get defensive, dear. I think this is _lovely_.”

Crowley physically cringes. “Of course you do.”

“Ah,” says Aziraphale. A look of understanding crossing his face. “The problem isn’t that I like it, it’s that I now know that _you_ like it.”

Aziraphale draws closer to Crowley, smiling. Crowley avoids Aziraphale’s eye. Instead, he looks around at his flat.

At the Christmas tree set up in the corner, with glittery baubles and flashing coloured lights. At the _Let it Snow_ banner hung across the doorway. At the red neon _Hohoho_ sign on his coffee table. At the fairy lights around his television. At the TV screen where Mark is confessing is love to Juliet on a series of signs. At the rapidly cooling mug of hot chocolate sitting by his phone. At _himself_ , wearing a black jumper with candy cane striped words on it declaring Crowley to be _Festive AF_.

They are silent for several long seconds as _Rocking Around the Christmas Tree_ plays from the other room. Then Aziraphale reaches out to Crowley, grasping his hand and squeezing. Despite himself, Crowley feels reassured by the gesture.

“It’s stupid,” mumbles Crowley as he looks down at his woolly sock clad feet.

“If you think this is stupid you must have hated spending time at the bookshop with me all month.”

“No, angel—” Crowley quickly raises his head to look at Aziraphale, who’s smiling back at him.

“I know you haven’t, Crowley. I know you’ve been having a wonderful month doing festive things with me. I already know you like Christmas.”

Crowley shrugs, but doesn’t speak. He doesn’t count it as conceding the point, but he also knows Aziraphale doesn’t need him to.

“Now, what’s an angel got to do to get a mulled wine around here? I know you must have some on the go—I can smell it.”

“I’ll go fetch you one.” Crowley smiles. “Get comfy on the sofa, maybe we can watch a film?”

“What film is this?” asks Aziraphale, looking at the screen, where Judy is leaning in to kiss John. “It looks nice.”

“Oh, no, that’s just some nonsense rubbish, I wasn’t even really watching it. We’ll find something else,” says Crowley dismissively. Aziraphale might have realised Crowley is fond of Christmas but he _can’t_ find out one of his favourite Christmas films is _Love Actually_.

He wanders to the kitchen, and by the time Crowley comes back with two steaming glasses of mulled wine, Aziraphale is curled up under one of the blankets unwrapping a chocolate coin. He also has his Santa hat on.

“Nice hat,” says Crowley as he hands Aziraphale his drink.

“Well, I had to match you, my dear.”

Crowley’s eyes widen as he absently reaches up to confirm that, yes, he put his reindeer antlers on this morning. Aziraphale, the beautiful bastard, just beams up at him and wiggles with joy.

“What do you fancy watching, angel?” Crowley scrolls through the Christmas selection on Netflix, hoping for inspiration or for something to catch Aziraphale’s eye. 

And something _does_ catch Aziraphale’s eye. Just nothing on the TV.

“Are those my presents?” asks Aziraphale innocently.

Crowley turns to look at what Aziraphale has seen. Off to the side and poorly hidden under a side table are several Christmas gift bags in various sizes. Crowley hasn’t bothered to hide them away properly, because Aziraphale wasn’t supposed to have come over.

“Whether they’re your gifts or not—” And really, who else’s are they going be, when they exchanged gifts with their friends yesterday? “—they aren’t being opened until the 25th.”

“Or tomorrow,” counters Aziraphale, “if we stay up until midnight.”

“ _Don’t_ open all your presents while I’m asleep!”

“ _Don’t_ go to sleep, then.”

“Or you could sleep with me.”

“I—” Aziraphale seems lost for words.

“I just meant—” Crowley fervently hopes they’re on the same page about this. “— _sleep_.”

“I—” Some tension seems to leave Aziraphale’s posture. “Yes. Perhaps we can try that.”

“Want to try one of these?” Keen to break the tension fully, Crowley holds out a tray of Ferrero Rocher.

Aziraphale squints at him suspiciously. “Absolutely not.”

Crowley laughs. “More for me, then.” He unwraps one of the perfectly normal chocolates and chomps delightedly on it.

“I’m going to get another mulled wine,” says Aziraphale as he stands up and wanders off to the kitchen.

While he’s gone, Crowley finally settles on a film ( _Trolls Holiday Special_ —Aziraphale is going to _hate_ it), and works his way through three more Ferrero Rocher.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale calls from the back of the room.

“Hmm?” Crowley gets up and wanders over to him.

Aziraphale is standing at the card holder Crowley put up a week or so ago, after his windowsill got full. In his hands are a couple of cards that he’d pulled down to read. Crowley peers over his shoulder to see. One is from Roger, the young bloke in one of the lower flats, and the other is from Florence, the old lady who lives directly below Crowley’s. What both cards have in common, Crowley now realises, it that they include a message thanking Crowley for _his_ card.

“Crowley,” repeats Aziraphale, “did you send all of your neighbours Christmas cards?”

“Ngk— _yes_ ,” admits Crowley.

Aziraphale turns and looks up at Crowley in wonder. Crowley knows the jig is up. It’s time to be honest.

“You were wrong, earlier,” he tells Aziraphale. “I don’t like Christmas.”

Aziraphale eyebrows draw together and he looks unaccountably sad for a moment. But only for a moment, because Crowley isn’t finished.

“I _love_ Christmas. I told myself I was doing all this stuff for you—the decorating, the films, the traditions… and I was, at first. Making sure you’re so happy is my mission in life. Then, I don’t know exactly when, and I’m sure not even God knows why, but at some point, I just started enjoying it all myself, too. It’s gaudy and full of _friendliness_ and I’ll _never_ like tinsel, but… it’s actually a lot of fucking fun.” Crowley shrugs, not knowing how to follow up his admission.

“ _I love you_.” Aziraphale says it urgently, like it’s been living inside of him just waiting for the right moment to make its escape. Maybe it has. “I love you for loving Christmas, and for so much more. For everything.”

Crowley smiles. If this is what happens when he admits how much he likes something, maybe he should declare his love for dumb shit more often.

“I love puppies and kittens, too.”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes.

“Oh, and helping old ladies across the road.”

“Shut up,” says Aziraphale, before pulling Crowley into a hug.


	24. Merry Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Aziraphale spend a relaxing Christmas eve together, but the celebrations aren’t over yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The celebrations might not be over, but this story is. Thank you _so much_ to everyone who has followed along and left kudos and comments. I hope you enjoy these last little moments of Crowley and Aziraphale's first holiday season together!

Crowley doesn’t think he has ever been more comfortable and content. The sofa cushions at his back are firm and soft. The blanket over him is warm and cosy. The crackling of the fire playing on TV is peaceful and soothing. The gentle lilting Christmas music from the radio is festive and cheerful.

Best of all, though, is the being beside him, tucked into the crook of his arm, snuggling close. Crowley sighs in contentment before leaning his head to the side and laying a gentle kiss to Aziraphale’s hair. In response, Aziraphale hums and snuggles even closer.

“This is perfect.” Crowley hadn’t meant to speak, but his words are true.

Aziraphale lifts his head from Crowley’s shoulder to smile up at him. “It certainly can’t get any better.”

“Wait, it can!” Crowley nudges Aziraphale, but he doesn’t seem to want to move. “I got us each a Christmas eve gift.”

“You bought yourself a gift?” asks Aziraphale.

Crowley grins. “Sort of. Come on, let me up.”

“I don’t think it works like that.” But Aziraphale does move to let Crowley up from the sofa.

It only takes Crowley a minute to nip down to the shop floor, locate the bags he brought with him, and dash back upstairs to Aziraphale’s flat.

“Here,” says Crowley, depositing one of the bags onto Aziraphale’s lap. “Merry Christmas, angel.”

Carefully, Aziraphale opens the bag and pulls out the gift. He shakes out the material it to reveal a mostly red jumper, with the image of a green bow and ribbon.

“A Christmas jumper?” Aziraphale asks, an undercurrent of excitement in his words.

“Yep.” Crowley motions to the jumper with both hands. “Put it on!”

Aziraphale shrugs of his cardigan and his sleeveless sweater before slipping the jumper over his head. He looks down at himself, then back up at Crowley, grinning.

“I’m a present,” he says.

“You’re a gift to humanity, angel, I only thought it was fitting.”

“I _love_ it, Crowley, thank you! What’s yours? Are you a present too?” Aziraphale giggles. “Should we snuggle under the tree together?”

“Ah, no. Not a present. I went in a different direction for mine.” Crowley pulls out his light grey jumper and slips it straight on over his black long sleeved t-shirt.

Aziraphale seems to scrutinise the rough, red capital letters on the front for a moment before reading it out loud. “ _Now I have a machine gun, ho ho ho_. Where have a heard that before?” His brow furrows as he thinks. It only takes him a moment. “Oh! That film! _Rocking Around the Nakatomi Tower?_ ”

Crowley laughs. “Yes, that’s definitely what we’re calling _Die Hard_ now.”

“Shall we watch another Christmas film?” suggests Aziraphale. “We don’t have much time left to get them in.”

“You know you can watch Christmas films any time of the year, right?” Crowley drops back down onto the sofa beside Aziraphale and throws his half of the blanket over his knees. “They’re not only available in December.”

“Yes, but it’s not the _same_ , my dear.”

“Okay,” Crowley is happy to indulge Aziraphale. “What do you want to watch?”

“Nothing like that terrible _Trolls_ film you subjected me to yesterday.”

Crowley bites his bottom lip in an attempt not to laugh.

“No, I would like to watch _Hogfather_. It’s a delightful book by Terry Pratchett that was adapted for television, and the children were telling me the other day how much they enjoyed the film. So.” Aziraphale firmly pats his knees with both hands, as though it’s all settled. “I would like to watch _Hogfather_.”

It is settled. They watch _Hogfather_. And it _is_ good. The Them know their Christmas films, apparently.

As they lay snuggled on the sofa after the film finishes, Crowley begins musing out loud.

“As much as I’ve enjoyed Christmas, and the whole holiday season, I’ll be glad once it’s over,” he says as he stares at the ceiling.

“Really?” Aziraphale sounds sorrowful.

“It’s been _a lot_ of work, angel. The gifts, the wrapping, the decorating, the being _nice_ to people.” Crowley gives an involuntary shudder. “I couldn’t keep it up all year even if I wanted to.”

“Fair point,” admits Aziraphale. “But we’re not finished yet, my dear.”

“Well, yeah, there’s still the big day tomorrow. Opening gifts, full Christmas dinner, Queen’s speech, afternoon nap.”

“And then Kwanzaa beings on the 26th. I _know_ it’s a cultural holiday and not a religious one, but it’s the _holiday_ season, not the religious season. And of course there is new year’s eve, we _must_ celebrate that—another year together! And then I was wondering if you’d be interested in taking part in Dry January?”

Crowley groans and pulls the blanket up over his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come say hi on [tumblr](https://infinitevariety.tumblr.com/)!


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